


Trick Me Twice

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Past Relationship(s), Post-Betrayal, Slow Burn, Top Will Graham, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal and Will are leaders of allied gangs, and were friends at one point - until Hannibal almost killed Will and sent him to prison. Now he needs Will's pack, his numbers, to stop his own pack being overrun. Will might never trust him again, but there's no reason they cannot keep things professional. At least, that's what Hannibal tells himself, as he enters the BSHCI to ask for Will's help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I put a poll up on my twitter because I wanted to write ABO gangsters and I wanted to know if people wanted Omega!Will or !Hannibal - the poll was pretty close and my bastard brain decided to write one of each. So here's the Omega!Hannibal one! The Omega!Will one is already posted; "Light Up the Torches". 
> 
> Tags will be added and the story will become explicit very soon.
> 
> I hope you guys like it! Enjoy!

When Hannibal enters the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he is calm. His hands do not shake, his pulse does not rush in his throat; his heart remains steady, beating in double time to his slow, unhurried footsteps. He follows Chilton down to the cells, winces at the stench of Alpha that floods his nose and mouth as he crosses through the gate at the end of the hallway.

In front of him stretches a walkway, wide enough to house several men abreast. On each side, thick iron bars and glass separating each resident from the guards and visitors, though Hannibal thinks the second type of party is seldom seen in a place like this.

Chilton meets his eyes, when Hannibal looks at him. "He's in the last one on the left," he says, and Hannibal nods, pressing his lips together, steeling himself for having to walk past all the other caged and collared Alphas within this place. He is prepared for the jeers, the catcalls; prepared, to see the Alpha he has come to visit.

These cells are for the particularly dangerous, he has been told. The murderers. The serial rapists. The ones that hold no hope of rehabilitation.

This is necessary – if he does not do this, his pack will be overcome. He needs the alliance, needs the help of the dogs that live on the east side of Baltimore and spread to Northern Virginia – right now, leaderless, barely held together since their pack Alpha has been down here the last several months.

He stiffens his shoulders when the first resident, on the right, throws himself against the edge of his cage and howls for Hannibal, grins wide at him as he passes. "Hey there, slicker," he hisses, showing his sharp canines, his eyes so red Hannibal cannot tell what the original color of his iris is. He ignores the Alpha, and keeps walking. "Come on, pretty boy, don't walk away from me!"

He sighs through his nose.

He keeps walking.

Another Alpha, on the left, grunts and snarls as he passes, teeth gnashing together and fingers pressing through the bars, trying to reach, and grab. The stench of Alpha in rut is overwhelming, for a moment, makes Hannibal want to gag. His nose, cursed with oversensitivity, burns at the smell of the other man.

He keeps walking.

There is a chair, placed at the end of the walkway. Hannibal pauses beside it, lifts his head, and looks into the last cell on the left.

Inside is a single man, curled up with his eyes closed, on his bed. His heels are drawn up, his arms folded over his knees, his chin tilted so that, if his eyes were open, he'd be staring at the ceiling. Unbidden – for he was prepared for this, surely he was – Hannibal's breath catches. His hair has gotten longer, falls in wild curls around his face and hides part of his neck. His cheeks and jaw are covered by a thin layer of scruff. His knuckles are bruised – old bruises, no fresh blood in the lines of them – but evidence of past, fairly recent violence.

He sits, and straightens. The Alpha in the cell breathes in, his brow creasing, nostrils flaring wide. He tilts his head as though listening to a whisper at his shoulder.

His voice, when he speaks, is breathy and soft. "Hannibal?" He opens his eyes, and their gazes lock. Will's eyes are just as lovely as ever – bright, a brilliant blue like a summer sky, ringed thinly with red around his pupil.

Hannibal smiles at him, and Will's fingers curl.

"What are you doing here?" he breathes.

"I came to see you," Hannibal replies. Will's eyes tighten at the corners, and he turns his head away sharply, glaring at the opposite wall. "You're looking well."

Will's fingers curl to fists, and he presses them against the tops of his thighs, rutting them up to his hips, and then down to his knees. His lips part, showing the tips of his canines, and his teeth snap together with an audible click.

"What do you want?" he demands softly.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and sighs, looking down at Will's feet. He brushes an errant, invisible speak of dust from his own clothes. "Can't I just want to visit an old friend?" he says mildly.

"We're not friends," Will hisses, snarling without direction. "The light of friendship won't touch us for a thousand years."

Hannibal's brows lift. He tries not to pay attention to the tight, shivering cold that resounds in his chest at Will's declaration – Will has always been cruel, it's why he was so good at what he did, but that cruelty has never been Hannibal's to bear, until now.

He presses on; "I need your help, Will."

"My _help_ ," Will snaps, and Hannibal feels the weight of his gaze again. Meets his eyes steadily, watches as the red in Will's iris flares and widens, thickens, in the wake of his anger. Omegas normally cannot hold eye contact with an Alpha for very long, but Hannibal is not a common Omega.

Will stands, prowling to his feet in a motion so graceful and feline, Hannibal's breath catches again. He tilts his head up, keeps his seat, as Will approaches the wall of his cage. Will doesn't have bars, just glass, thick and unyielding, with holes at waist height for air circulation, and a small tray through which food and correspondence can be passed.

Will presses his hand to the glass, and tilts his head. Snarls; "What, my dear _friend_ , do you need help with?"

Hannibal stands, as well – he was prepared for Will's anger. It's justified, really. "Your pack is leaderless," he says, and Will lifts his chin, eyes flashing in visceral outrage, fingers curling as he fights not to let his reaction show on his face. As pack Alpha, Will has always been fiercely devoted and protective of his pack – a trait Hannibal often admired in him. Will is loyal to the last. "Mine, fierce though they are, is too small to maintain my territory. We are at risk of being overrun."

Will blinks at him, slowly, and frowns.

"Yours will not follow anyone but you," Hannibal adds, and takes a step closer, watches as Will's nostrils flare, his lips part to take in a greedy lungful of Hannibal's scent. Hannibal knew he would have to come here, and so he took no suppressants for a week, and is wearing nothing to deaden his scent – he can pull at Will as an Alpha, if he must, if he cannot reach Will as a friend. As whatever they were to each other before Will was sent here. "But I need them, to secure my position. An alliance between our houses will benefit us both."

"How will is benefit me?" Will snaps, sharply. "Sounds like you're the only one in real danger, here."

He's posturing – he doesn't want to reveal how much the idea of his pack dissolving puts him ill at ease. Hannibal smiles. "What if we could work together?" he murmurs, and takes another step closer. "Join our houses – our numbers, and our savagery, would be unmatched."

Will barks out a hard, ugly laugh, and drops his hand before Hannibal can match his on the glass. He shakes his head, and looks at Hannibal like he's a fool. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" he demands. "I'm not stupid, Hannibal – you're the reason I'm in here, I know it."

Hannibal sighs, but will not do Will the disservice of denying it. "Evidence planted, easily re-planted," he says. "I have friends in every layer of the justice system. I can get you out of here, Will."

Will stares at him, openly, and Hannibal doesn't know how Will can look so angry, and hopeful, and so unbearably sad all at once. "Fuck you," he says, and his voice holds no strength anymore – there is something utterly beaten in the slope of his shoulders, and the curl of his fingers. He shows his teeth. His eyes brighten, grow wet. " _Fuck you,_ Hannibal."

Hannibal sighs. "Will -."

"No!" Will yells, snarling loudly. His neighbor, on the other side of the cement, growls in answer, instinctively riled up at the sound of Will's rage. Hannibal stiffens, and casts his eyes to one side, and steps closer to the end of the walkway, away from the other Alpha.

He swallows, and steadies his breathing. "How long have you been in here, Will?" he asks. "Five months? Six?"

Will doesn't answer.

"Let's say six," Hannibal murmurs, and meets his eyes. "Six months in here. Six months with me. Then you are free to do as you will."

Will lunges for the glass, beats his fist against it hard enough that, at the other end of the hallway, behind the gate, Hannibal sees the guard stiffen and straighten, alert. He lets out a soothing noise immediately, going to Will – he has never been afraid of Will; Will is his friend, Will has always been his friend.

Will sags against the glass at the sound of Hannibal's sweet purr, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, his head bowed and fists clenched tight. His face, what Hannibal can see of it, is contorted into a violent, twisted mask of pain. Hannibal's heart shivers at the sight of it; his neck aches.

"Will," he whispers, and puts his hand on the glass. "Come with me. Let me get you out of here."

Will does sob, then – his lungs shatter with a broken-sounding groan, and he lifts his eyes, red-rimmed and wet. Still, Will is undeniably proud, for he doesn't yield, doesn't nod. He hisses; "Why should I? You need me, I don't need you."

Hannibal presses his lips together, and pulls his hand away. Flattens it, deliberately, over the collar of his shirt. Beneath it, old as Will's confinement, is a set of teeth marks – a scar, deep and knotted and purpled. Will's eyes drop to the motion and his expression melts into something terribly wanton; a deep, awful ache.

"I know you felt it too," Hannibal whispers.

"The last time you offered me that," Will says raggedly, "you gutted me and left me for the dogs to find."

Hannibal knows this – they have known each other for a long time. When it seemed inevitable, almost two years ago, Hannibal offered his neck to Will, and took Will's in turn. The mark of his teeth is visible, old and whited out, on Will's neck. They gave each other Voices, gave each other the unique and powerful privilege of invincibility against all others – only they have the power to wound each other now, to compel, to trick and coerce.

When Hannibal framed Will and sent him away, the separation of that bond, though it was never sealed with a knot and sex, almost sent Hannibal into a frenzy. He has never known loss like that, never felt an ache as deep as that before. He barely survived, he knows that; went mad knowing Will was away from him, that his friend, his pseudo-mate, was not there to touch him and smile for him and reassure Hannibal with his presence.

Will felt it too – felt the bond breaking. Suffered through it as Hannibal did. He knows that.

His eyes are on Hannibal's neck, wanting, wanting. "Six months," he breathes, and straightens. "What happens after that?"

Hannibal presses his lips together, and looks away, startling when Will snarls and slams his fist against the glass again. It does not break, barely even trembles, but the sound is loud. "Look me in the fucking eye if you're going to lie to me," Will demands.

"I won't lie," Hannibal replies, and shakes his head. "I never lied to you, Will. Not once in my life. I never could."

Will shows his teeth. "No," he says, soft as the slide of a knife between ribs – cutting, cruel. His eyes drag down Hannibal's body, slowly, and lifts to his face again. "Here are my terms."

Hannibal nods, ready. His hands did not shake, his pulse did not rush, entering this place, but now, weighted by Will's gaze, he trembles.

Will sucks in a breath, lowers his lashes. Pushes his palm flat to the glass and tilts his head.

"My pack is mine," he says sharply. "Anything you need them for goes through me – you're not in charge of them, I am." Hannibal nods – he expected that. "We'll work out of your house – it's larger, more central, and it means I can keep an eye on you."

Hannibal smiles, at that.

"Separate bedrooms," Will finishes. His eyes drop, briefly, to Hannibal's neck, and then rise again. "No Voices. No bites. Just enough contact so that people don't question it."

Hannibal blinks at him, surprised. "I'm not on suppressants, Will," he says mildly. Will grits his teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes in; of course, he can smell that, he knows what Hannibal normally smells like and he can taste the difference. It's one of the reasons Hannibal stopped taking them, before he came here. "I'll go into heat."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Will replies coolly, brow arching, haughty, his smile mean. "I'm not your mate – you've made it perfectly clear you don't want that with me. To pretend otherwise is…"

 _Cruel_.

Will's fingers curl.

"Six months," he says quietly. "And, after, perhaps you can still claim my numbers against your enemies. But that's all I will give you."

"Are you so masochistic, so afraid and so petty, that you would deny yourself what you want just to spite me?" Hannibal argues, frowning.

Will barks out a hard laugh, gazes wide-eyed and smiling at Hannibal. He shakes his head and drops his hand. "What did I do to you?" he asks, rough and harsh; "How did I hurt you, for you to do what you did? You tried to _kill_ me, Hannibal – then, when you could not, you framed me for murders I didn't commit. Don't talk to me about _pettiness_. Do not talk to me about _fear_."

Hannibal swallows, and looks away, down the hall. His fingers curl, and he's trying not to breathe in too deeply. He was prepared, but the stench of angry Alpha is disquieting, and he doesn't think any man could be down here for so long and not be affected by it. Perhaps, in the fresh air, Will's teeth and words and mindset will gentle, but it will not happen here.

He breathes out. "I agree to your terms," he replies.

Will nods, once, sharply, and steps back. "I suppose you have to get me out, then," he says. "I want this contract in writing."

"In writing?"

"I can't trust your word." Will laughs, at that, and rolls his shoulders in a cavalier shrug. "When I'm out, we'll both sign it. Have it fucking witnessed, notarized if need be. I won't be hurt twice by you, Hannibal."

Hannibal did not expect that. He winces, and tries to hide the expression, but he knows Will saw. He meets the Alpha's eyes, and sighs through his nose. Lets his voice color with regret when he says; "I am so sorry, Will."

"What are you sorry for?" Will demands. "Doing what you did, or knowing that because of what you did, you need me now?"

Hannibal winces again. "Both, I suppose."

Will smiles at him. It is not a kind expression, and it makes Hannibal's stomach shiver with cold – Will, when he's happy, is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. This smile, this way he is moving, is a mockery of that.

"Are we in agreement, then?" Will asks.

Hannibal nods, and sighs. "I will make the arrangements, and have this contract waiting for you. I'll come collect you myself."

"As any mate should," Will replies, chin lifted. He turns away so Hannibal cannot see his face. His tone, when he speaks, is bitter and sharp; "Alright, then. Run along and do what you have to like a good little Omega."

The words are sour – Hannibal wants to growl, he wants to snap his teeth and demand to know why Will would ever talk to him like that. But he knows – Will has always possessed a singular ability to incite, whether that passion is for love or outrage. It's one of the things that made him such a good leader, that grew his pack so large.

He nods to himself. "I'll see you shortly, Will," he says, and doesn't like the feeling of being cowed that sits on his shoulders, now. Will doesn't look at him, merely returns to his bed and resumes his position, curled up and staring at the opposite wall.

Hannibal walks away, towards the gate. His hands are shaking, and he tries to hide it beneath the fold of his coat. His heart is rushing in his chest; his neck aches terribly, and there's a pit of anxious warmth in his stomach at the thought of Will returning to him, but coming to him as a stranger. How could Will tuck away all of their history, like some bauble on a shelf?

He thinks of the heat of Will, the warm rush of his blood when Hannibal had gutted him, sliced his belly wide open so that he didn't have to bear the ache, the desire, to do what he had really wanted, that night. Tensions were high, there was blood in his teeth from Jack Crawford – he had come to Hannibal's home, tried to rip out the weed of his pack by the stem, by killing the leader. Will had found him as Jack lay dying and seemed so -.

Hannibal doesn't know. He never gave Will the chance to explain himself. Never tried to find out what might have happened if he'd touched Will's face, felt him melting, pressed close to him as instinct and animal-triggered adrenaline had compelled him to do. Will makes Hannibal feel raw, on the inside, makes him do drastic things.

Will went away for Jack's murder. Hannibal made sure it was so.

A small part of him wonders, if it came down to it, if he would have the strength to do it a second time.

He doesn't know the answer. He was prepared for so much, so many things, but Will, as always, has taken him by surprise. His friend is, at his core, the most unpredictable thing, and Hannibal wonders if he will simply sit meekly by while Hannibal works out his designs.

No, he decides. Will doesn't have it in him to do that. Hannibal must tread carefully.

He breathes out.

He keeps walking.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal is vindicated to know that he was right – Will gentles in the sunlight, in the open air. He's dressed in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a large, oversized sweater, since he was arrested while recovering from Hannibal's attack, and his clothes from the hospital still hold terrible stains of his blood. Hannibal brought those for him, from Will's house. If Will protests the scent of Hannibal clinging to the clothes, he doesn't voice it.

Hannibal pulls up to the front gates of the prison as Will is escorted out, Chilton and two Alpha guards flanking him. He rolls the window down. "Going my way?" he calls.

Will glares at him, and doesn't look back at the facility as he approaches the car, and climbs into the passenger seat. Hannibal will admit, it's gratifying to catch even a trace of his own scent on Will, though it's so much thinner and lesser than how Will used to smell – they were good friends, for a long time, and Hannibal's home held Will's warmth for days after Will's arrest, taunting Hannibal with his scent, as he sweated and fought his way through the forcible breaking of their bond.

Will sets his eyes forward, his jaw clenched, sitting perfectly straight in the passenger seat. It will be a while, Hannibal thinks, before he allows himself to relax, to slouch and show his neck as he used to so often. Because the sweater is so large, it falls around the base of his throat openly, showing the silvery scar in the shape of Hannibal's teeth on the side of his neck.

Hannibal drives away smoothly, pulling from the parking lot and driveway, and onto the main road that leads to the highway. It takes about an hour and a half to reach Will's home from here, and Hannibal keeps the windows rolled up and the car heated, despite the warm weather, so that he can soak himself in Will's scent.

"I suppose you'll want to pack some things, since you insist on residing in my house during our contract," he says, forcibly amiable.

Will nods, once, sharply. "Do you have it?"

Hannibal hands him the file without a word, a pen tucked over the edge so he can sign it. Hannibal has put his own signature upon it already. Will reads it in silence, presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose, taking the pen and scrawling his signature below Hannibal's.

He hands it back, and Hannibal tucks it next to his seat with a smile. Will rubs his hands over his jaw, up through his long-grown hair, and settles with another sigh. They drive to Will's house in utter silence, to the point where even Hannibal, who has always enjoyed silences with Will, feels tense and uneasy.

He drives up and parks behind Will's car, and turns off the engine. Will frowns, and Hannibal hides his smile, for their cars are not the only ones there.

Will gets out of the car, and Hannibal follows suit. The front door opens, and Will's pack of dogs come out in a flurry of excited barks, running straight for him. Here, Hannibal sees Will smile, wide and happy for the first time since their reunion. He crouches down in the grass and accepts his pack with a small laugh, grinning as two of the larger ones barrel into his arms.

Hannibal looks up, as Will does, a silhouette eclipsing the door. Hannibal smiles when he sees Alana, and she returns it with a small nod, eyes dropping in a gesture of deference and respect. She leaves the house and approaches them.

"It's good to see you again, Will," she says kindly, as Will stands. His frown is still deeply etched on his face – not angry, not upset, but confused.

He nods to her, pressing his lips together, and tilts his head. "Were you taking care of them all this time?" he asks.

She smiles. "Of course!"

Will's eyes flash to Hannibal, deep and dark and giving nothing away. "Thank you," he says with another small nod, a kind smile twitching the corners of his mouth up.

She returns it, and pulls her coat around her, shivering despite the warm day – she's always cold. "Well, I'll head out. I was just coming to feed them. I'll see you guys later," she says with another nod of respect to Hannibal. She walks to her car, gets in, and drives away. Will watches her in silence the whole time.

He breathes out. "You had your beta taking care of my dogs," he says.

"Of course I did," Hannibal says, for the thought of abandoning them is ridiculous. "For a time, I was too sickly to care for them myself, and when I had recovered, Alana had made them part of her routine, and it seemed unnecessary to take over."

Will's brow creases.

"And -." He stops, clears his throat, and absently pets over a brindle's ear as the dog noses at his hand, tail wagging wildly. "Would you have kept her doing it, while leaving me to rot in that place?"

His tone isn't angry, but it isn't happy either. Hannibal shifts his weight, discomfited by the idea that he cannot read Will as well as he used to. But, "Yes," he says, and Will meets his eyes again. "I knew you would never forgive me, had I left them to their own devices. To starve, or be separated by the state."

Will barks a laugh, harsh and cutting. "How kind of you," he says sharply, and turns away, walking into his house, his pack following him in a flurry of happy yips and whines. Hannibal follows him in, makes sure all the animals are inside, and closes the door behind him. "I suppose she'll have to keep taking care of them, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"I read the contract," Will says, and fixes Hannibal with a cold look. "I'm a prisoner in your house, only to be taken out to give permission for my people to carry out your orders, and then tucked away again like a teacup for special guests."

Hannibal frowns at him. "It stipulated you would remain with me, unless necessity took you away," he says. "I consider taking care of your animals a necessity."

Will blinks at him, and looks surprised.

"You signed it anyway," Hannibal adds, head tilting curiously. "Even thinking that was not the case."

"I'm free, Hannibal," Will says. "I'm not going to do anything that gets me sent back there." He pauses, eyeing the space. The mattress tucked close to the front door, the little table by the window, the fireplace surrounded by dog beds – all untouched, unchanged, even the sheets still warped by Will's sleep the night before he never came back.

"Though I suppose that's up to you, as well," he sighs. "Who took the fall for me?"

"An acquaintance of mine," Hannibal replies. "An Alpha a little too interested in me, easily done away with."

Will frowns, for he knows all of Hannibal's friends. "Tobias?" he guesses. Hannibal smiles, and nods. Will snorts – an ugly sound – and shakes his head. But there is a smile on his face as well, something viscerally, cruelly pleased. Will had no love for Tobias, and if Hannibal did not know him as well as he does, he would think Will was jealous of the attention.

But he does not know Will now. Will has had six months to become a completely different person, a stranger in Hannibal's eyes. He doesn't like the thought of that in the slightest.

Will looks at him, and sighs again. "I'll go pack," he says, and turns away, walking up the stairs to the rooms that would normally serve as a bedroom, if Will were the kind of person to leave the door unguarded. Hannibal has staff that watch the doors of his house, and the street on which his pack mostly reside, and so he is well-protected. Will is not, all alone in his little house in the middle of a field, with only open air and dogs for company.

Hannibal sits at the little table, content to wait. Some of Will's dogs who have a better memory approach him, for they know he normally brings treats with him, made from his kills. Hannibal smiles, and pats the brindle – Will's favorite, he knows – on the head, but has no food to offer. A fact they seem to realize soon enough, for they move away from him and go to the bottom of the stairs, or to their beds, and settle down to wait for their master to return.

Hannibal sighs, inwardly. Now that he has Will's loyalty, and his pack's numbers by extension, he will have to move quickly, and publicize that fact. No one moved against them when Will was free, when they were together, for Will's numbers are large and Hannibal's pack is fierce and relentless, his generals all merciless and clever.

The first order of business will be Jack's remaining crew. Jack has been a thorn in Hannibal's side for many years, and it's come time to deal with that threat once and for all. After Hannibal killed him, his beta, Miriam Lass, took up leadership of his pack. The memory of that Alpha brings with it other memories – the night Jack lay dying, the night that Will came to him and looked so afraid, so lost and yet relieved to see that Hannibal was alright.

Hannibal's fingers flex on his thighs, his mouth flooding with saliva. Oh, what might have happened, if Hannibal had given Will a chance to explain himself? No one could deny that there had been talks between Will and Jack – secret things Hannibal only heard whispers about. What they spoke of, Hannibal may never know, but there's an undeniable correlation between those talks and Jack's spearheaded focus to eradicate Hannibal and his pack completely.

Then, the night Jack had come to him, posed as a peacekeeper but with his gun locked and loaded. Hannibal snarls, and Will's dogs stir at the sound of it.

The floorboards creak above him.

Hannibal blinks back to the land of the living as Will comes back downstairs, expertly navigating through his curious dogs as they nose at the two bags slung over his shoulder, packed to the brim. Hannibal stands, and smiles at him, and forces those lingering memories away, to be taken out and examined at a later date.

They get back in the car after Will secures his house, and drive to Hannibal's home. The street is quiet, most of his generals set about their normal tasks, and there are two guards at the door, that blink in recognition when they see Will. One of them, Sutcliffe, Hannibal's chief guard, smiles warmly at him.

"Welcome back, Mister Graham," he says with a friendly nod.

Will returns it, his face impassive, and follows Hannibal inside. Hannibal watches Will as he takes in the house, breathing in unsteady and deep. His fingers trail, absently, along the lining halfway up the wall, curl and drag with nails. His face, for a moment, becomes a mask of desperate pain, and he swallows harshly, and Hannibal knows he is trying not to make a sound.

"Come," Hannibal murmurs, and leads the way to the stairs. "I've prepared a room for you."

Will follows him, and Hannibal leads him to the guest bedroom, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Will walks in, and freezes, blinking at the innards. There is a wall closet, for Will to put his clothes, and several cabinets and cupboards for him to place his things as he likes. A bedside table, but no bed.

Instead, there is a nest. Hannibal chose the blankets and bedding carefully, making sure they were all things soaked in his scent – not enough to be obtrusive, but certainly obvious.

Will drops his bags, and takes a step forwards it. His hands become fists, and he looks at Hannibal with a sharp expression, that hides whatever it is he's thinking. "Alphas don't nest," he says.

Hannibal smiles, for this is something they spoke about often. "You do," he replies, unrepentant. Will is an Alpha, that fact is undeniable, but he likes being enclosed and kept warm, likes the softness and protection and comfort a nest provides. He always has, but denied himself that comfort for so long, for the sake of appearances.

He need not pretend, with Hannibal.

Will looks back at the nest, and sucks in a shaky breath. He shows his teeth, and looks skyward, his eyes suddenly so bright and shining with water. Hannibal presses his lips together, and says, "Do you like it?"

Will is silent, and still. Then, he nods.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

Will whines, the sound so sudden and sharp, so loud, that Hannibal's entire body goes cold, aching with the need to go to him, to pet his hair and offer his neck and soothe him as Omegas do with their mates. The desire hits him fiercely, as sharp and cutting as Will's words, and he shivers when Will looks at him, glaring through teary eyes.

"I hate you," he hisses. Hannibal looks away, to the wall. "And I hate that I can't hate you. I want to know why you did this to me."

Hannibal swallows.

"Look at me!" Will snaps, raw and powerful. Hannibal can't disobey. Will lifts his sweater, showing the dark, knotted scar stretching across his belly from Hannibal's knife. He lets it fall, and says with another hiss; "Why? What did I do to you?"

"Will -."

"Don't touch me," Will snarls, and steps back, for Hannibal had tried to reach for him. The rejection from Will stings him sharply, and his fingers curl, and drop limply, a puppet with its strings cut. "I would have done anything for you." Will's voice is barely a whisper, but he might as well be screaming. Hannibal might prefer that. "I would have killed for you. I _did_ kill for you, and I protected you. I -."

He stops, before he can say it. But Hannibal knows. He has always known.

Will runs his hands through his hair, trembling in place. Hannibal imagines this is how he looked through the withdrawal of their bond, sickly and pale and screaming for someone who would never show. Just as Hannibal did.

Will sucks in a breath, very slowly, very deeply. He cups his hands at the back of his neck, closes his eyes, and lets it out. When his eyes open again, there is no water in them, and they are black and red and all things outraged.

"Leave," he snarls, so fiercely Hannibal takes a step back. "Let me know when Randall shows up."

Will's beta. A powerful Alpha in his own right, despite his youth, and so terribly loyal to Will that when Will was arrested, Hannibal thought Randall would be the first one to attack. He has been keeping a low profile, however, but he must be doing something, for Will's pack to still be together, albeit loosely.

Hannibal nods, knowing Randall will hear soon that Will has been released, and will come looking for him. Hannibal must send out a summons, so they can discuss their future plans.

He sighs, and says, "I'm glad you like the nest, Will. Let me know if you need anything else."

Will doesn't respond, and Hannibal turns away, feeling shaken and cold at Will's lack of answer. Will is an internal thinker, always has been, and it frustrates and pains him to know that he will not be able to read Will as he used to for quite some time. Possibly never again, if Will continues to hide how he's feeling, only showing his emotions and using his words to wound.

He wants to hurt Hannibal, that much is clear – he cannot do it physically, Hannibal doesn't think Will could ever bring himself to attack, but he has always been remarkably cruel, with those sharp eyes that see so much.

Will could never hit him, bite him without consent, hurt him like Hannibal hurt Will. If he could have, he would have, the night he was gutted. But oh, how _badly_ it aches, to hear Will speak of hate.

Alana is in the kitchen when he goes downstairs, and looks up as he enters. She hands him a glass of wine without a word, and Hannibal takes it, drinking half of the bowl without even pausing to savor the bouquet or appreciate the taste.

"Find Mister Tier, if you can," he tells her. "We must publicize Will's release, and the union of our packs. His generals will need to come here to receive further instruction."

She nods, and presses her lips together, her eyes sad. "How is he?"

"About how you'd expect," Hannibal replies, and sighs down at his glass, taking another drink. "He is not a man known for his forgiving nature."

"You have that in common," she says kindly. Hannibal manages a weak smile. "I'll go immediately, and let you know when I find him."

"Thank you, Alana."

"Am I still going to care for his dogs?"

"No," Hannibal says, and shakes his head. "Will is going to do that, going forward."

She smiles. "A shame. I quite like them."

"Well, he has no quarrel with you. I'm sure he'd love to have you visit."

She sighs, sorrow coloring her eyes again. "He loves you, Hannibal," she murmurs. Hannibal closes his eyes, nodding. He knows that. He has always known that. "Whether he forgives you or not, that's up to him. But we don't get a say in who we love."

"Bedelia told me, once, we don't get a choice when it comes to forgiveness, either," he replies. "Either he will, or he won't."

"Forgiveness comes with understanding. Let him understand. Let him decide." She tilts her head, looks him over, and he meets her eyes. She frowns. "You have more gold in your eyes than normal. Are you alright?"

"I'm sure it's just a side effect of all this excitement," Hannibal says soothingly. No one knows he stopped taking suppressants – he can't risk any of his enemies finding out, and giving them enough time to ready an attack should he go into heat. And he will – even if he were to start taking them again, the damage has already been done. With the man his body once knew as his mate in the house, Hannibal is sure it will happen.

He swallows, and gives her a smile that is charming, and kind, and placative. "Go now," he tells her, and she nods, straightening and fastening her coat around her waist. "Let me know as soon as Randall is on his way."

"I will," she says. "Good luck, Hannibal."

"And to you, Alana. I'll see you soon."


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal hasn't seen Randall since Will was arrested, but has always found him to be a pleasant enough young man, if a little more animal-like in his mindset. He was raised locally, farm-grown, and brought up in the kind of home where women and Omegas were meant to be mothers and little else, where Alphas ruled the roost, protected and defended it until the end. Hannibal has no quarrel with him, because Randall has always been utterly respectful of him despite his Omega status.

That is likely Will's doing.

It is simply the truth that having one's pack beta be an Alpha is untraditional. Women are the obvious choice, since they cannot be influenced or manipulated by Alpha snarls, Omega whines, their pheromones, or their Voices should they have them. Alana is the most level-headed woman Hannibal knows, what's why she's his second in command. Jack has – had – Miriam Lass. Even Dolarhyde, with all his unusual proclivities, made his wife the beta of his pack.

But not Will. No, Will always snaps his teeth at tradition and turns the norm on its head.

Alana brings Randall in the early afternoon, the day after Hannibal brought Will home. Will and he have only seen each other long enough for Hannibal to wish him a safe drive, that morning, when he left to go feed his dogs. He returned at noon and went to his nest, locking himself inside and Hannibal has seen neither hide nor hair of him since.

But that does not mean he doesn't sense Will, and feel his presence. Perhaps it is increased sensitivity borne from the interruption in his suppressants, perhaps Will is simply the kind of person who takes up every space he inhabits, but Hannibal can smell him in the drafts of air, like he lives in the air conditioning. Every creak of the floorboards above his head makes Hannibal perk up at attention, wanting to know his mate's – no, not his mate, not now – whereabouts and movements. Will is not his mate, not anymore – was he ever? No, Hannibal shrugs the thought away. He cannot afford to be distracted while things are so tense.

Will is everywhere. He is in the rustle of the grass in Hannibal's garden, in the groans as his house moves and shifts its weight during the day. In the air, his scent embedded in the rafters and the walls. Will is an Alpha in this regard; he compulsively scent-marks, even when he doesn't mean to. Even when he resists the urge. Hannibal can feel his heat lingering in the bannister, smell him in the carpets. It's maddening, to have Will so near and yet so far away.

He rises from his table when Alana enters, Randall in tow. He looks just as Hannibal remembers him; not quite as tall, and still very young, his eyes dark and ringed with red, his expression one of careful, suspicious openness. He has never been overly friendly towards Hannibal – whether that's because of his in-grown prejudice or because Will warned him from it, Hannibal could not say – but he reaches out to shake his hand readily enough, and then lifts his chin, scenting the air.

Will moves, above them, and Hannibal hears him coming down the stairs, and he appears in the doorway to the dining room. He smiles, wide and warm, and Randall's entire disposition changes – he smiles, brightly, as though a light was turned on behind his eyes, and throws himself into Will's arms. The scent and sound of purring, happy Alphas is suddenly so strong, but Hannibal does nothing to stop himself smelling it, because Will's scent is part of the aroma.

Will embraces Randall readily, nosing at his neck, up along his cheek, into his hair. Randall is shorter than Will, and submits to the scenting readily, his purr soft and rumbling in his chest as Will drags his nails through Randall's hair. They touch each other like brothers might, pack-friends that share a bond as any Alpha and beta would. Beside Hannibal, Alana is smiling, her eyes soft with affection.

There is something very sweet, very soothing, about seeing two Alphas who are clearly fond of each other. Were this any other scenario, Hannibal has no doubt they would be wrestling on the floor like puppies.

"You're a hard man to find, Mister Tier," Alana says when Will and Randall part. Will squeezes Randall's shoulder, and gestures for him to sit. Will goes to the second head of the table, Randall on his right. Alana takes her place at Hannibal's right, and they all sit.

"That's by design," Randall replies, somewhat sharply. Will's smile fades, his expression turning neutral – he's pack alpha, now, and sitting down to business, not reacquainting himself with an old friend. Randall's eyes darken, and land sharply on Hannibal. "You taught us a valuable lesson; that no one can be trusted."

Hannibal lifts his chin, pursing his lips, as Alana huffs at Randall.

Will taps Randall's hand, and shakes his head. "We can talk about that another time," he says, clipped and sharp. "Did Alana tell you why you're here?"

"I came because I heard you were out," Randall replies, and looks at Will. "Nothing else."

Will nods. "Hannibal and I have come to a…temporary truce," he says, and looks at Hannibal as though daring him to challenge it. "I'll be living here for the next six months, so any updates, anything you need to find me for, you need to come here." Randall nods.

Will smiles at him, and then fixes Hannibal with a raised brow. "Alright, general," he says, and sits back. "Tell us your grand schemes."

"The first order of business will be to publicize the reunion of our packs," Hannibal replies. "Most will not dare strike against either of us, with your numbers and my reputation." Will huffs, and lifts his eyes skyward. "The only major cause for concern will be what remains of Jack's pack. Miriam Lass is not going to let his murder go."

Will's eyes flash, and narrow. "You mean to strike against Lass?"

"I mean to eradicate her completely," Hannibal replies, and smiles. Will's frown deepens. "Once she and her followers are done away with, the rest will come to heel quickly, I imagine."

Will's upper lip twitches, though he makes no sound.

Randall does, though. "That's bullshit," he hisses, glaring openly. " _You_ killed Jack. We have no quarrel with Lass or her people. You just want cannon fodder."

"Randall," Alana warns.

"No! I won't stand for it." Randall is snarling, now, the red in his eyes brilliant and bright. "You killed Jack. You took away my Alpha and threw him in prison for _months._ You almost _killed_ him. Don't think for a second I don't see your chains around his neck."

Hannibal sighs. "Randall, I assure you, the agreement Will entered into with me was fully transparent and consensual."

"You can't _consent_ to something that gives you no other choice," Randall hisses. "You of all people should know that."

Hannibal raises his brows, a flicker of amusement stretching his mouth into a smile that isn't necessarily kind. Will tenses, at the other end of the table, and after a moment, he lets out a sharp, warning sound to his beta, telling him to stand down.

"It's already done," he says coolly, and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Now, tell me, where are the rest of my pack?"

"Where you left them," Randall replies. "We haven't gone, we're not weak." He tells Will this in a tone that begs him to be believed – Hannibal does not know enough about Randall himself to know if he is lying on sight, but Will does. Will tilts his head, presses his lips together. "We just went underground, waiting for you to come back."

Will's eyes shine with something, something dark that moves like gears of a great machine. "So if I were to summon you, everyone would show up?" he asks. Randall nods. "I want it made perfectly clear at this table, Randall – my pack is still mine. No one obeys an order from Hannibal or any of his people without my explicit consent."

Randall nods again, and that order seems to soothe him. His shoulders drop, and he dips his head. "Of course, Alpha."

Will nods, once, sharply, and fixes Hannibal with an expectant look. "Do we know where Lass is?" he asks.

"Ah, another complication. No one has seen her since Jack's death, though we know she took up his mantle. Finding her may prove…difficult."

"I'll find her," Randall says, straightening, and looks to Will like a dog begging for a treat. "Give me a week. I'll find her."

"Perhaps you and Alana should work together," Hannibal says, and gestures to his beta. "Surely Will would not protest combining resources, and two sets of eyes are always better than one."

Will eyes him, for a moment, and then nods again. "I think that would be best," he says. "Hannibal, you'll need to get me a phone, so I can communicate with my pack whenever I need to."

"Of course," Hannibal replies. "We can go today."

Will sighs through his nose, and drums his fingers on the table. He looks to Randall again. "Spread the word that I'm out," he says, and Randall nods, standing. "Then I guess…" He gestures between him and Alana. "Make friends. Find Lass. But _no one_ is to move without my command."

"Understood, Alpha," Randall says, and bows his head again. Will smiles, finally gentling, and stands, pulling Randall into another hug. Randall embraces him tightly, his nose at Will's neck, and he lets out a sound that is both a sigh of relief and an angry snarl.

He pulls back, and touches Will's neck, over the mark of Hannibal's teeth. He says something, in a language Hannibal doesn't know, and Will's eyes flash. He looks to Hannibal, and smiles – not happily, not kind at all – and replies in the same language, and Randall laughs.

"Well, Doctor Bloom," Randall says, and turns to Alana. "You were my ride here. Would you mind?"

"Of course." Alana stands, and gives Hannibal a respectful nod of her head. "Let me know if you need anything." Hannibal smiles at her, and she turns and walks with Randall out of the dining room. Will watches them go, and then his shoulders roll, and he sits back down.

He slouches, one elbow on the armrest, hand cradling his chin, and fixes his eyes stubbornly on the curtains behind Hannibal's head.

"What language was that?" Hannibal asks lightly.

Will smiles, and still won't meet his eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would, that's why I asked."

"Maybe I don't feel like telling you."

Hannibal smiles. It feels like Will is teasing him, which is heartening, because Will used to never pull punches when it came to his quick humor, but he also almost never showed it around people he did not feel some kind of affection for. His contrarian disposition, unlike his outright anger, is familiar and fond.

"Randall missed you dearly, it seems."

"Yeah." Will blinks, once, slowly, his expression softening, before he controls it again. "It was good to see him." His eyes, finally, move, and settle on Hannibal's, and sharpen. "Thank you."

Hannibal smiles. "It was no trouble, Will," he says. Then, remembering Randall's words, he sighs, and adds; "I know this is difficult for you – he was right, in a way. As you were right. You are a prisoner here, though I am trying very hard to make it seem like you are not."

"Can't have me running away," Will murmurs. "I have the numbers to completely overwhelm you."

Hannibal huffs, but can't deny it.

"What happens after Lass, Hannibal?" Will asks. "What if the rest do not fall in line? Who's next on your list?"

"I suppose Dolarhyde, then," Hannibal replies. "Or Freddie." Will's jaw clenches, and his eyes flash with a brief show of visceral anger. Will's and Freddie's relationship spans back even before he and Hannibal met, and has always held teeth.

Will hums, and taps his fingers against his mouth. "I'd like to kill Freddie," he murmurs absently. Then, his gaze sharpens again. "I demand that of you now – no matter what happens with Miriam, she's our next target." He smiles, wide enough to dimple his cheeks. It is not one of his happy smiles, but holds a terribly pleased edge, nonetheless. "Then we can be considered even."

"I am yours to command, Will," Hannibal says.

"That's not true," Will snaps. "It was never true. I don't _want_ to command you."

Hannibal knows this, he has always known. It's one of the reasons he values Will's friendship so much. His fingers curl, and he looks down at them, and sighs.

"I suppose we should go get you a phone, while the stores are still open," he says, and stands. Will follows suit, tucking his chair beneath the table with a petulant shriek of wood on wood. He smiles when Hannibal winces.

"Do you still cook?" Will asks, shouldering his coat as they make their way to the closet in the hall. Hannibal nods, and Will hums. "I'd like you to cook for me, tonight. You can choose the menu."

Hannibal blinks at him, surprised, but undeniably pleased. "It would be my pleasure, Will," he says, and Will lifts his chin, and forces his way past so that he is the first out the door. They walk to Hannibal's car and he climbs into the passenger's seat once the doors are unlocked.

He wonders if he should mention it, and wonders if Will might turn cold on him again for doing so, but decides to say it anyway; "I prepared prosciutto from Jack's meat."

Will stiffens, and fixes him with a flat look. "I don't want to eat Jack," he says sharply. "Don't you dare make me." His voice is cold, robbed utterly of warmth, so much so that Hannibal shivers, and looks ahead as he pulls out of the parking space.

"Did you care for Jack?" he asks quietly.

"He was like a father to me," Will snaps. Hannibal blinks, and frowns forward – he knows Will and Jack knew each other for quite some time, but that startles him. "He took me in when I first came up here, and made me what I was."

"You've…. You never told me," Hannibal replies.

"I don't owe you anything," Will says sharply, and slouches in his seat, glaring out the side window. "I'm sure you have friends I've never heard of, either."

"That's not true," Hannibal protests. "You know everyone I know."

Will barks a laugh, and shakes his head. "Don't lie to me. I prefer sins of omission to outright lies."

"I'm not lying, Will."

"Oh? Care to explain Anthony, then?"

Hannibal does not let his expression change, but his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "You knew Anthony," he says.

"I knew _of_ him," Will hisses. "I didn't know about all those meetings you had with him. I don't care about it now," he growls, and waves his hand, staying Hannibal's answer. "I don't want to hear about whatever the two of you did, but I'm not going to let you sit there and preach at me about _transparency_ when you kept things from me."

Hannibal swallows, and keeps his eyes on the road. "Tell me, Will, what exactly do you think Anthony and I did?"

He can feel Will's glare, burning a hole in the side of his face. "I smelled you on him, Hannibal," he snarls.

Hannibal blinks. "He and I were merely acquaintances," he says coldly. "He got too close. I ended him. That's all there is to it."

"Strange, how many of these _acquaintances_ you seem to have," Will says. "Tobias, Anthony, Jack, me…. Are we all just playthings to you?"

"Don't forget, Will, that Jack attacked me first. He came to my home and tried to kill me; you were there. You called me before he came and told me he meant to kill me." They pause at a red light, and Hannibal fixes Will with a look he hopes is detached. Will's eyes burn, bright with red. "If you want transparency, then let's start with that."

"Fuck you," Will snaps. "I don't owe you anything. Not after this."

"Is our relationship always going to be a matter of who owes what to whom? An endless give and take?"

"You just take," Will says. "Take and take. You took my neck and my blood, you took my stomach, and my Voice, and my freedom, and now you're taking my pack, and the kills that are rightfully mine. What will be left, by the time you're done?"

Hannibal doesn't have an answer, for in truth, he doesn't know.

The light turns green, and they drive on.

 

 

They get a new phone, and Will remembers Randall's number by heart, and calls him to let him know it's Will, and that this is his new number. He gives instructions to share it with all his generals, and for Randall to inform him as soon as they have Miriam Lass' location.

The drive back to Hannibal's house is in silence, only the outside whir of passing traffic and the soft patter of starting rain to break it. Hannibal has never minded silence, especially with Will, but their conversation has made him feel prickly and strange, his teeth too sharp to stay in his mouth. Perhaps it is his lack of suppressants, making him more sensitive to the Alpha's sour mood – he aches to touch Will, to soothe him and offer his neck because that is what Omegas do to appease their Alphas.

But Will is not his Alpha. Will is not _his_.

He parks the car outside his house, kills the engine, and sighs. Neither of them make a move to get out, trapped in some purgatory-like place where teacups remain shattered and the rules of time and disorder mean nothing to the likes of them.

"Would you believe me if I said I regretted how I behaved that night?" Hannibal asks.

"I don't know," Will replies.

"I can't erase what I've done to you, Will. You bear the scars of my cruelty, both in body and mind, and will, forever."

"That makes you happy," Will says. "You like that you've marked me."

"I suppose," Hannibal murmurs.

Will turns to look at him, neither his eyes nor the turn of his mouth giving anything away. "Would you answer me honestly, if I asked you why?"

"As honestly as I was able."

"So no, then."

"Will." Hannibal sighs, and tips his head back, looking up at the roof of the car. "I think it's fair to say that both of our impressions of that night are warped, by truths and falsehoods we told each other, or kept hidden from each other. I cannot apologize for a version of that night in your head."

"Tell me your version, then," Will demands.

Hannibal nods, pressing his lips together, and puts his eyes on the front door. "Perhaps over dinner," he says, and looks to Will. "If you're still inclined to join me."

Will nods, and gets out of the car. Hannibal follows suit, and lets Will lead the way inside. "Not Jack," Will says, after they have shed their coats. "I mean it, Hannibal – I'll never forgive you if you feed me his meat."

"I won't," Hannibal promises. He wants to touch Will, wants it so desperately he is momentarily blind with it, knows only the scent of this Alpha and the promise of his warm neck between Hannibal's sharp teeth. He resists, but only just. "Go rest," he coaxes. "I will call you when it's ready."

Will nods. He has dark circles under his eyes – despite the nest, he hasn't been sleeping well, Hannibal can see it. It will take him a long while before he relaxes enough to get any real rest here. He goes to the stairs and ascends them, leaving Hannibal cold and bereft on the bottom floor.

He goes to his kitchen and fishes out his suppressants, taking twice the normal dose and washing them down with wine. Even though the cycle was interrupted, and his heat is coming, he hopes it will be enough to deaden his senses to Will, so that he is not struck quite so thoroughly by the Alpha's presence.

It is a fool's hope, but Hannibal might be a fool, for he hopes nonetheless.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal has cooked many meals for Will, throughout the time they have known each other. The first meal he brought in offering was a scramble, made with sausage pieces from one of his kills, to see if Will liked the taste of the other, other white meat. It is the first time he can remember hearing Will purring openly for him.

Not the second meal, but one closely following, Hannibal served him 'pork', with a sauce so tart and rich it dried Will's mouth out and he drank too much, and ended up spending the night. The morning after Hannibal had found him standing at the entrance to his basement, at the foot of the stairs, staring dispassionately at the pile of bones Hannibal had yet to discard, still clinging to leftover blood and viscera.

He had made no mention of it, merely turned around and walked back upstairs, and brought Hannibal one of his enemies that night, his throat slashed by Will's claws, and said 'I hope you're hungry'. Outright cannibalism is not common, but there have been stories since the dawn of time, of Alphas killing and devouring their rivals, or Omegas so afraid or threatened that they did grievous harm to someone trying to hurt them. Pre-meditated, calculated murder is still illegal, of course, but Hannibal is careful.

And Will has made it perfectly clear that he enjoys Hannibal's cooking.

Hannibal keeps his word, and doesn't touch Jack's meat while he prepares a meal for Will. There isn't enough left to feed them both anyway, just prosciutto and a few frozen cuts from his shoulders, but Hannibal has plenty else to offer. It's been a long time, too long, since he did anything resembling an Omega-coded task for an Alpha; keeping the home, cooking, taking care of household affairs, those are all things the Omega is responsible for, but he does them for himself, not for anyone else.

Until, Will. Always, Will.

His lips purse, eyeing what he has. Ah, yes – two vacuum-sealed sets of kidneys, taken from a subordinate who thought he could play two sides of the skirmish, easily located and dealt with. An Alpha, too young to understand that Hannibal's Omega nature does not soften him to anyone. Clearly he had not heard of Will's fate, before Hannibal ended his life.

He fills a pan with flour, salt, and pepper, and takes the kidneys out, patting them dry on a paper towel. With a knife, he carefully cuts away the white cores, discarding them, and slices the kidneys into thick cubes, before liberally covering both sides of the organs with the crust.

He rinses his hands, and takes out a second pan, melting butter into it on a low heat so that it does not bubble and burn. While it's heating, he takes an onion and cleanly slices it, feeling the familiar prickle behind his eyes as the onion's fumes react with his tear ducts, causing his eyes to moisten. He sighs, blinking the reflexive tears away, and adds the onion to the pan in the melted butter, once it's hot enough.

Once the onions have turned a crisp, golden brown, he cups the kidneys in his hands and lays them into the pan, stirring so that every side fries perfectly. While the meat is cooking, he retrieves tomato puree and spicy mustard, adding the pastes to the dish, his nostrils flaring as the scents start to fill the kitchen. He adds water, watching the sauce thicken, and finally, the finishing touch – a tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce, and some more salt and pepper.

He reduces the heat to a low simmer and covers the pan, letting the kidneys tenderize and the sauce thicken further, and considers his wine cabinet. He used to serve Will sweet wines, since the Alpha suffers from a sweet tooth that rivals Hannibal's own at times, but he's feeling somewhat prickly, and petulant, and so selects a drier red, bitter with tannins. He once joked about the meat Will brought him being bitter with fear.

"Resentful of being dead," Will had purred, and smiled at him across their meal. "I'll be gentler next time."

Hannibal sighs to himself, and uncorks the wine, running it through an aerator into a pitcher since he didn't have time to let it breathe beforehand. Then, he sets the table. Normally the Alpha's place is at the head, but this is Hannibal's home, and he thinks if he tried to insist Will sit there, Will would not take it graciously.

With that in mind, he places a setting on each side of the head of the table, and places glasses with ice water, a knife and fork, and space for plates. Empty glasses, for the wine, with the pitcher closer to Hannibal than Will. Normally Hannibal has a centerpiece which is as lavish as his meals are, but he cleared the table for Randall's visit, and is in no mood to try and preen for Will at the moment.

As though summoned by his thoughts, he finds Will in the kitchen when Hannibal returns to retrieve the meal. The Alpha is idly dragging his fingertips along the kitchen island, breathing in the scents, his eyes flashing a pretty, dull red as he scents the air.

Then, his gaze snaps to Hannibal, and sharpens, and the little blaze in them is snuffed out rather viciously. "Smells good," he says, and Hannibal cannot help but smile. "What is it?"

"Devilled kidneys," Hannibal replies. There is a loaf of Italian bread on the counter, wrapped up and untouched, and he opens it, and slices two thick pieces from the center, for him and Will, and toasts them before he places them on two plates. He removes the lid from the pan, a cloud of steam rising, and scoops the kidneys and onions with a straining spoon, ladling a hearty amount for both of them atop the bread.

Will hums. "Whose kidneys?"

"Someone whose only good deed in life was to give them," Hannibal says coolly. Will hums again, and Hannibal feels a strange tension in his shoulders, on the back of his neck – an Alpha's gaze. He hasn't had to bear one like that for quite a while. No Alpha stares at him as brazenly as Will. "They aren't Jack's."

"I didn't ask."

"No," Hannibal says, and takes a plate in each hand. "You didn't. Shall we?"

Will nods, leading the way into the dining room. If he feels any particular way about the place settings, he doesn't give them voice, but sits in the place he usually sat, with his back to the wall, able to view the kitchen and hallway door both. Hannibal sets his plate down, then Will's, and pours them both a hearty amount of wine, before he sits.

Will eyes him, for a long moment. It's tradition for the Alpha to take the first bite of the meal – tradition they kept during their friendship, more because Hannibal has always been more interested in hearing Will's verdict on the meal than any ingrained sense of societal hierarchy.

Will looks down at the meal, takes his fork in hand, and spears a piece of kidney, and eats it. His eyes flash, and his lashes flutter, half-closed as he lets out an unconscious, pleased rumble. Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile he tries to hide, for the sake of Will's pride, and he begins to eat as well.

Will washes it down with wine, wincing at the bitter taste of it, and sighs through his nose. He looks slightly less tired, and Hannibal hopes he managed to get at least some rest while Hannibal prepared their meal.

He takes his knife in hand, and slices a section of the moistened bread free, eating it with another piece of kidney. "Haven't lost your touch," he says, when his mouth is free, washing it down with water. Hannibal does smile, this time, openly. "I certainly hope that extends to your efficiency, too."

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal replies, watching Will eat. "You agreed to stay here for six months. What if my goals are accomplished before that time?"

Will's eyes flash. "I suppose that's up to you, isn't it?" he says, his tone neither playful nor bitter. "You're the one with the keys to my cell."

Hannibal sighs. "I'm not sending you back there," he says, and he hopes Will can see how much he means that. "Knowing you were under the thumb of _Chilton_ , of all people." He blanches – it's no secret how much he despises that man, useful as he's been on occasion.

"I'm lucky I didn't get the fucking chair," Will snaps. "Though I imagine that's your doing, as well."

"Don't do your lawyer the disservice, Will – she was very good."

Will huffs. "And who recommended her to me, years ago?" he asks with a raised brow. Hannibal smiles. "I find it so obvious now – your touch, in everything I do. Every action, reaction, plan and counterplan. You have always been there, pulling my strings." He stabs another piece of kidney rather forcefully, his expression dark. "I must have been very entertaining, for you to have kept me around that long."

Hannibal presses his lips together, and takes a long drink of his wine. He regrets choosing something so bitter, now; he could use the sweetness to gentle his teeth. "I think I can honestly say you are the one person I never tried to manipulate, Will. Not actively, anyway."

Will frowns, but doesn't say anything.

"Are you still open to discussing that night? Laying everything out in the stark light of our new relationship?"

"There is no relationship," Will says darkly, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal's – not as a challenge for him to look away, but daring him to. Hannibal does not look away. "I need to know why," he adds. "Why was your first instinct to attack me, after I came there? You weren't nose-blind, you weren't crazed – you knew it was me."

Hannibal nods. Both Alphas and Omegas, during times of high stress, can suffer what can only be called temporary insanity – the inability to tell friend from foe, threat from aid. Only what they are and what the rest of the world is. Hannibal could pretend he was blind, like that – could pretend he didn't know it was Will, only knew the scent of Alpha and that it was foreign to him, and he reacted on instinct. But he could never do Will the discourtesy, and it's such a false thing to say. A cheap lie.

"Let us agree to be open and honest with each other," he says, and Will's eyes flash, and he nods, once, sharply. He sets his utensils down, food forgotten, and fixes Hannibal with a steady gaze. "I was afraid."

Will blinks, frowning, clearly not expecting that. "Afraid?" he repeats.

"Yes," Hannibal says, and sighs. "I knew you had been speaking with Jack. I didn't know why, or about which subject, but I noticed when it happened, the number of attacks on my pack grew in frequency and ferocity. Jack knew things, suddenly, that he could not have known without an inside source. And then you called me, and told me he was coming for me, and he showed up at my home ready to kill me. What was I to think?"

Will's eyes darken, and his jaw clenches. "You thought I was selling you to Jack," he says tightly. Hannibal nods.

"What did you expect to find in my home, Will?" he asks. "Did you think Jack would have defeated me, and robbed you of my influence? Did you think you would come and find me standing above him, and that I would welcome you with open arms, and share in the kill?"

Will sucks in a breath, and looks away, briefly, to the door. His shoulders are tense, his neck moving as he swallows, and he shakes his head. "I thought you would at least give me a chance to explain."

Hannibal's head tilts.

"You always did. Every time someone was brought to you – a suspected traitor, or an enemy, you had them tell their story before you killed them. Not to be swayed, but because you wanted to understand."

Hannibal smiles, and shakes his head. "No, Will," he says, and Will's gaze snaps to him again. "I don't care about the motivations of traitors."

Will frowns. "But -. I've seen it," he says.

Hannibal leans forward, and plants his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and tapping his knuckles against his chin. "I did that for your benefit, Will," he says. Will blinks at him, frown deepening. "I knew you cared. You have always wanted to know, even if in the end, you trusted my judgement and my decision. When you were not with me, I didn't listen. I didn't care."

Will blinks again, and then barks out a harsh, unsteady laugh. "I see," he says coldly. "So even your empathy and sense of justice is a lie."

"Not a lie," Hannibal replies. "Just not in the direction you assumed."

Will swallows, and looks down. "Right," he mutters. But Hannibal knows he understands what Hannibal is saying – Hannibal was never merciful for the sake of being merciful. He has never been open to hearing the justifications of the men and women he has killed. Their actions seal their fate before he ever comes for them.

But _Will_ needs to know. He has always possessed a certain righteous vindictiveness. Hannibal only pretended to care, for Will's sake.

Will begins to eat again, but behaves as though he cannot stomach another bite. Hannibal wonders if he intends to starve himself, as well as deprive himself of sleep. His eyes lift again, and he says; "Jack was gong to give me Freddie."

Hannibal blinks, and tilts his head.

"He's the only one who knew her as well as I did, and once I aligned myself with you, it was impossible to get a hold of her. I knew Jack would give me anything I asked for, if I even _suggested_ he might get you in the bargain." Will's lips twitch at the corners, hinting at a savage, knowing smile. "He wanted to kill you more than anything in the world."

Hannibal knows this.

"So I fed him what I needed to, promised him what I had to. I was going to take him out once Freddie was dealt with, but he got suspicious, or jumped the gun, I have no idea. Maybe it was a test." Will shrugs, and sighs. "He saw the bite on my neck, flipped out, and by the time I knew what was happening, it was too late."

He makes another low, ugly noise, glaring at his wine glass. "I guess my fatal flaw was thinking you would trust me enough to give me a chance to explain myself, because you always had. Another lie you fed me, I suppose – I thought you just, and merciful. I thought you… _loved_ me enough, to at least listen."

There is no emotion on his face, now, nor showing in his eyes, as he breathes in and takes another bite, and washes it down with water.

"Clearly I was wrong."

For a long while, Hannibal can only stare. Stare, and stare, at the man he must admit he never quite knew, not as well as he would have liked to believe. That Will could be so… _effective_ , at playing a double agent. That he would be able to lie so easily to both Jack and Hannibal – had Hannibal been any less observant, he would have slipped through the cracks completely unnoticed.

He clears his throat, and lowers his hands. "Why do you think it was a test?"

"Jack knew how I felt about you," Will says tightly, and rolls his shoulders. Though his tone does not change, Hannibal feels the emphasis in 'felt', so sharply it momentarily robs him for breath. "He didn't trust me enough to do it myself, I suppose. Or maybe he wanted to be the one to kill you." His eyes flash. "He blamed you, for what happened to Bella."

"I didn't kill Bella," Hannibal says sharply. "I simply didn't save her." When she came to Hannibal already half-dead from a morphine overdose, when she told him how Jack had been gone so long, so crazed, from the hunt. She chose to die in a place covered with Hannibal's scent, perhaps as one final vengeance, for all the strife Hannibal had caused her husband, robbing him from her bedside during her final days.

Will hums. "Because you didn't care."

"Should I have?"

Will lifts his shoulder in a shrug, and doesn't reply. He takes another drink of water.

"I can give you Freddie, Will," Hannibal murmurs, after another long, aching silence. "I would have helped you, before. You didn't need to go to Jack."

Will's nostrils flare, and he presses his lips together. "And now I can't," he says darkly. "You've removed everyone, everything, in my life that isn't you. Even now, I only walk as a free man because you allowed it. So I'll ask you, now – what happens, if we're resolved within a month, for the other five?"

Hannibal sighs. "I don't know," he admits.

Will arches a brow, and he sets his fork down again, and mimics Hannibal's posture from before – elbows on the table, chin cradled in his hands. "Take a guess," he says, soft but commanding all the same.

"I suppose, using your words, once Miriam and Freddie are both disposed of, we're 'even'," Hannibal says, meeting Will's gaze. "Then you are free to do as you please."

"Do as I please," Will parrots back, eyes dark. "What do you think would please me?"

Hannibal smiles. "Revenge seems like a good guess."

Will tilts his head. "Maybe," he purrs, in a way that makes Hannibal's head flood with warmth. Will breathes in, and his irises flare out, the ring of red in them thickening for a brief moment. He frowns. "You started taking your suppressants again."

"A foolish endeavor, I'm sure," Hannibal replies mildly. "The damage is already done."

"You went off them to manipulate me," Will says sharply. "To tug on the part of my brain that remains tied to you. So you either think that I'm weaker than you, or you feel the same pull." Hannibal swallows, and nods, once. "Which is it?"

"I've never thought you weak, Will," Hannibal replies, and hopes that is answer enough.

Will's eyes drop to his neck, just briefly, before they lift again. "Well," he says, with a breath of finality, sitting back, "let us hope our dealings are over with before you lose control over yourself." He says it with a certain vindictive pleasure, delighted at the idea of Hannibal being the one suffering, for once. Hannibal can appreciate that.

He smiles, hiding the strange disappointment, the chill that sits in his chest at the idea that Will would discard him so carelessly, as if he were no more important that one of his dogs' leavings. He sighs, internally, and lifts his wine glass to meet Will's toast.

They drink, and continue their meal in silence. When it is done, Will rises and goes back to his nest, leaving Hannibal to clear the plates and wash the dishes, and make sure the house is kept in order, like a good Omega should.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days later, Hannibal wakes, profoundly uncomfortable, deeply sore and shivering with cold, and soaked to the bone. He rolls onto his side with a stifled groan, closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose against his wrist, breathing in deeply. His body aches, mostly in his lower back, his shoulders, his thighs and neck, giving little twitches and spasms even as he tries to calm himself. It is a familiar sensation, though one he has not felt for some time – when approaching heat, Omegas, even in sleep, will move to seek their Alphas out. Particularly sensitive ones can develop disruptive sleep patterns, so that they are able to wake and react should an Alpha approach them when they are at their most vulnerable.

As a result, Hannibal is exhausted, and sore. He rises from bed, staring dispassionately at the large stain of sweat and slick on the sheets, undoubtedly seeping into the mattress, and sighs, shedding his clothes. He goes to his bathroom and steps into the shower, turns the water just the comfortable side of cool, and rinses himself off.

His normal shampoo and body wash contain chemicals to deaden his scent – not hide it, Hannibal is certainly not ashamed of being an Omega, but to soften it so that it's not too distracting. He considers the bottles for a moment, and then forgoes their use, deciding instead to use a small bar of unscented soap instead.

If Will wants to take delight in his suffering, Hannibal will not let himself suffer alone. He's curious how Will might react, smelling Hannibal's heat approaching. If he will bare his teeth, curse Hannibal out, snarl and lock himself away. If he will lunge, and do the kinds of things Alphas do to their mates.

Hannibal's neck aches, and he rubs over the old scar from Will's teeth, shivering and closing his eyes. The day they bit each other was a day like any other; no pressing matters to attend to, but their decision was reached mutually, from an inevitable course they had set themselves upon, through friendship, shared meals, shared closeness. Hannibal cannot possibly argue that he was vulnerable, before Will – more susceptible to an Alpha Voice. Once bitten, only the Alpha who laid the mark holds that kind of power, and Hannibal trusted Will not to abuse it. He still does – foolishly, perhaps, but he does.

Will isn't that kind of monster.

He finishes with his shower, glad to feel that he is not yet starting to leak uncontrollably, though the muscles in his ass and thighs feel looser than usual, even when he tenses them – aching for teeth, for warm, strong hands. For something only an Alpha can give him. He presses his lips together, and sighs, toweling himself off briskly and going back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Will's bedroom door is closed, and he can hear Will moving around inside, so he goes downstairs and begins the task of preparing breakfast and coffee. Will used to tease him for his contraption, calling it a glorified chemistry set. The reminder makes Hannibal smile, as he begins warming the water, and turns the burner on, setting a pan atop it and letting a little square of butter melt inside.

He takes eggs and breaks apart four, whisking the contents into a separate bowl with some milk, and pieces of spring onions, and chili peppers. He takes bacon, next, and begins to lay the strips out to be cooked.

"Hannibal?"

He startles at the sound of Alana's voice, and almost drops the bowl of eggs, uttering a curse when they splash against the rim and stain his hands. He breathes out, heavily, and closes his eyes, rolling his shoulders, and wipes his hands clean.

He turns, and forces a smile. "Good morning, Alana."

She tilts her head, her eyes dark and assessing as she looks him up and down. Without a word, she approaches, shrugging off her coat and scarf and setting them down on the island. "Are you alright?" she asks, her voice lowered and soft with concern.

Hannibal resists the urge to snarl at her. "I'm fine."

Her head tilts again, and her frown deepens. She lifts her chin and scents the air – as a woman, she doesn't possess the capabilities of smelling Omegas and Alphas like they can smell each other – but Hannibal realizes that she's not trying to smell _him_.

The butter is burning, and Hannibal hurriedly turns the stove off, and moves the pan to one side. He glares down at it, and sighs again. He's distracted, on edge, and already feels damp with new sweat, like stepping out into unbearably humid air. The heat of the stove is suddenly intolerable, and he dabs his forehead with the dishcloth.

"I'm fine," he says again.

"No, you're not," she snaps, and circles the island, forcing him to step away from the food and the stove. She touches his chin and makes their eyes meet, and her own narrow. "You went off your suppressants, didn't you?"

Hannibal's upper lip twitches, and he pushes her hand away. "I began taking them again."

" _Hannibal_ ," she hisses, and folds her arms across her chest. Hannibal's fingers curl, and he finds himself strangely unable to meet her eyes. "What were you thinking?"

He sighs. "I wasn't."

She lets out another short, angry sound, and shakes her head. Hannibal breathes in her scent, weakly, eagerly – she has a lovely, calming scent, floral and soft like vanilla. Another reason Hannibal chose her as his beta, for she is a headstrong but calming presence for him. And now, shaken as he is, he aches. The air stinks of Will, as well, and Hannibal feels like it's implanted in his skin even though Will hasn't touched him. It must be a symptom of his encroaching heat; he hasn't felt one in so long, he'd forgotten how intense they could be, how much everything sharpens in the days leading up to it.

"Alana," he whispers, and she melts immediately, eyes soft with worry, and steps up to him. She tucks her nose to his chest and he breathes her in again, embracing her gently, and doesn't like how his hands shake. He curls them in her hair to try and hide it.

"I can get you some Neutral, or something," she offers. Neutral – a drug that is meant to interrupt unwanted or sudden heats and ruts. Usually used for Alphas, since their ruts are not seasonal and can be triggered at any time once mated, but has proven effective on Omegas as well.

He wonders, briefly, if Will would laugh at him for taking it. The entire time Hannibal has known him, Will went into rut once – the day after they bit each other, since their bodies thought of each other as mates. He refused any treatment, refused to let it hinder his daily routine. Hannibal remembers how he smelled, how he looked, the red in his eyes and the clench of his jaw. Remembers how he had refused to let Hannibal near him, but stayed close by, some animal instinct in him commanding he remain around Hannibal. To keep him safe, to keep watch, he doesn't know. The memory makes him feel warm and weak all at once.

He breathes in her scent again, and lets her go once he feels calmer. "I can handle it," he murmurs, and hopes he sounds as sure as he wants to be. In truth, he's not, for the fact of the matter is his mate – Will _is_ his mate, no matter what reality might say – is in the house, and his body can't deny that.

She nods, accepting his decision. "Do you want me to get you a hotel somewhere? Or a safehouse – I can have it prepared. Make sure you have everything you need until it passes."

Hannibal growls, quietly so she doesn't hear or feel it, and shakes his head again. "I will not be chased out of my home by my own foolish decisions," he snaps, and she nods again, sighing through her nose. He turns his attention back to breakfast, and doggedly fixes his focus on buttering another pan, waiting for it to heat, and pours the eggs into it, waiting until they bubble and cook on one side before flipping them. "How can I help you? Unless this was just a casual visit."

Alana shakes her head, and smiles. "Randall told me one of Will's people found Miriam Lass' last known location. It's abandoned now, but I wanted to let you know, in case you wanted to join us in scoping it out." She presses her lips together. "We can go alone, though."

"Nonsense," Hannibal replies. "I will accompany you. Will may wish to join as well – he's upstairs. Would you mind going and informing him?"

She nods. "Randall's here," she tells him. "I left him by the door. Should I tell him to wait there?"

He knows what she's really asking. It would be a good experiment – to confirm if his body aches for any Alpha, or for one in particular. If he will have the same reaction to Randall as he does when he thinks of Will.

"You may invite him in," he says, and gathers more eggs. "I have plenty to make breakfast for all of us."

She nods, and gives him one last concerned look, before she disappears with a click of her heels. He hears quiet words exchanged, and knows immediately when Randall is at the door. He tenses, and turns, feeling the Alpha's gaze on his neck. Randall smiles at him, friendly enough, but keeps his distance.

"Good morning, Randall," Hannibal greets, and nods to one of the bar stools lining the kitchen island. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Randall nods, and comes in, and takes a seat. "Would you like some water? The coffee isn't quite ready yet."

"I'm good, thanks," Randall replies. He drums his fingers against the countertop, his eyes sharp on Hannibal's face, and then away. He looks like he's trying to keep his breathing shallow; polite. Hannibal turns away and flips the eggs, and uses the time between to grease another pan and lay the bacon atop it so it starts to fry.

He breaks open more eggs, adds spring onions and chilis to that mix as well, and grabs four plates, laying them out. Upstairs, he hears the floorboards creak as Alana approaches Will's room. Hears the door open. Cannot hear them talking.

"Hannibal," Randall says, and Hannibal tilts his head and hums, showing he's listening. "I know things are…tense, right now. But I…" He pauses again, and Hannibal slides the first set of eggs onto the first two plates, and turns to meet his eyes. Finds them ringed with red, instinctively showing at the presence of an Omega nearing heat. He clears his throat, flushing, and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. "If you need help, I'll help you."

Hannibal blinks at him. Randall's offer is not _technically_ out of line – if a pack Alpha dies, it falls to the beta to take care of any wives or mated Omegas he left behind, although not always in the same capacity; simply to offer safety and money and a bedmate, only if they want it. If Will had been killed, or arrested for good, by any other means than Hannibal's hand, Hannibal would have become Randall's responsibility. It is, on the surface, a rather kind offer.

And yet; "Would you murder me once you got me alone?" he asks, smiling.

Randall's eyes flash, and his smile is wide, showing all his teeth. "Probably."

Hannibal laughs, and turns his attention away, beginning to cook the second set of eggs and flipping the bacon to their other side. The oil crackles and pops from the heat, and the scent of cooking meat and brewing coffee is helping to coat the kitchen, gentling the scents of so many others in Hannibal's home.

"Your Alpha is free now, Randall," he says quietly. "It's not your job to help me anymore."

Randall huffs, the sound not quite happy or kind. "You think he'll want anything to do with you, after what you did?"

"That's not your decision to make."

"That's true," Randall concedes with a small nod. "And he is my Alpha, and I love him, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure he's safe and happy. If that means taking you off his plate, well, I'll do that too, if I must."

Hannibal huffs, and doesn't let the words offend him. They're well-earned. "I'm alright, thank you," he replies coolly, and finishes with the eggs, separating them onto the final two plates. The bacon is almost ready, and he gathers a fifth plate and lays a paper towel on it to soak up the grease before dividing them up. "And I'll keep this conversation between us, for your sake."

"Oh?" Randall laughs.

Hannibal turns to him with a smile. "Will is a possessive man, Mister Tier," he says. "Even of things he doesn't claim to want."

Randall's gaze sharpens, and he is still smiling. "You make a good Omega, you know," he says. Hannibal's head tilts. "Keeping house, making sure everyone's fed. Capable. And a killer – though that appeals to only a certain set of Alphas, I imagine." Hannibal's brows lift. "You're doing a very good job of pretending you don't want him too."

"I do want him," Hannibal says. "That's no secret."

"Mm." Randall's head tilts. "In what way, I wonder?"

Before Hannibal can answer, he hears Alana and Will descending the stairs, and straightens, scooping the bacon off the pan and turning the burners off, laying the strips down on the paper towel. He presses another on top of them, soaking up the grease, and removes it, dividing the strips neatly. He gives the plates for Will and Randall more – Alphas like meat, and Will likes his bacon crispy, so Hannibal makes sure he gets the most-cooked strips.

The coffee is finished, by the time he's done, and he pours a mug for everyone. Alana helps him bring the plates and mugs to the table. He sets Alana's plate first, then his own, then Will's and Randall's, as is customary. He returns for water, and finds Will in the kitchen with Randall, the Alphas purring happily as Will nuzzles his beta's neck, gently brushing his thumb under Randall's jaw, where his scent glands sit.

They are speaking in that language Hannibal doesn't know, and he clears his throat, and gestures with his glass of water. "Whenever you're ready."

Will's eyes sharpen on him, and his nostrils flare wide as he takes in a deep, greedy scent. It's terribly uncouth, Will's behavior, but Hannibal likes it – he likes the way Will's eyes flicker and darken with red, likes the way he shows his teeth and curls his fingers, dropping them from Randall's neck. They twitch, like he wants to touch Hannibal, but resists.

He nods. "After you." They follow Hannibal into the dining room, so short a chase Hannibal barely has time to grow breathless from it, but his stomach and head feel very warm. Will sits at the second head of the table, as he did before, Randall on his right, Alana at Hannibal's right.

They sit, and Hannibal waits. As leading Alpha, it's Will's role to take the first bite. Alpha eats first, and the rest follow after.

Will cradles his coffee mug in both hands, his eyes on Hannibal, and takes a slow sip. He wets his lips, and sets it down. Doesn't eat. Hannibal's fingers curl around his fork, and Will's lips quirk in a smile.

He holds Hannibal's gaze for what feels like a century, and then slowly picks up his fork, scoops a bite of eggs, and eats it. Hannibal breathes out heavily, relieved for a reason he doesn't quite understand, and the others begin to eat as well. Hannibal resists – he is hungry, ravenous, really, but not for food.

Will raises a brow, and looks pointedly down at his plate, and Hannibal swallows, and obeys the silent command to join the meal.

"So," Will says, after another moment of silence. "You found Lass' last hideout?"

Alana nods. "An observatory," she tells him. "Abandoned, by the looks of it."

Randall nods as well. "Chris was the one to find it. Said he scoped the place out, didn't smell anything fresh there. I don't think she's been there for at least a week."

Will hums, pressing his lips together. "Jack was a fan of alternating bases," he says, and takes another drink of coffee. Hannibal blinks at him, meets his gaze; of course, Will would know Jack's operations better than anyone here. "Each one always seemed permanent, but could pack up and move on at a moment's notice." He huffs, and smiles somewhat bitterly into his mug. "Like a popup circus."

Alana frowns at him. "Does that mean she might return to that place, if we waited long enough?"

"I'm sure once we're there, we will be able to tell," Hannibal replies.

Will sets his mug down, and frowns at him. "You're not going," he says sharply. Beside him, Alana tenses, and puts her attention on her food. "You shouldn't leave the house at all, smelling like that."

Hannibal smiles. "I'm sure you're more than capable of protecting me from a wayward Alpha," he says.

"You're a distraction," Will snaps. Hannibal's smile widens. "And if it's a trap, I'm not going to be worrying about you or anything else if it comes down to a fight." Oh, Will. "You're not going."

"Forgive me, Will, but I thought you said you didn't want to command me to do anything."

Will is glaring at him openly now. "And you said you weren't going to try and manipulate me," he hisses. "You lied."

"Ah, so you can feel justified, sinking down to my level now," Hannibal purrs, and grins at the sound of Will's low, angry snarl. Will stands, abruptly, his chair screeching back across the floor.

" _Leave_ ," he commands, and Randall obeys instantly, standing and making his way towards the kitchen. Alana looks at Hannibal, wide-eyed and nervous, and Hannibal nods to her, gives her a reassuring smile. She looks back to Will, as if in warning, but stands and takes her coffee into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Will straightens. "You're just as stubborn as always," he snaps, "but don't you _dare_ jeopardize this plan – _your_ plan, I might add – because you want to hurt me."

Hannibal blinks at him, and tilts his head. "I don't want to hurt you, Will."

Will makes a sound, half a bitter laugh, high-pitched and hysterical.

He bows his head, shakes it, his shoulders tight and rolling up. "I don't understand you," he whispers, and sits again. "All I know is that you're a liar – you've lied to me, over and over again. Maybe you don't see it like that, but I do. Everything you do feels false." He meets Hannibal's eyes, and Hannibal swallows. He knows he cannot possibly say anything to convince Will otherwise, right now. "Why do you want to go?"

"I want to help you," Hannibal says. "Four sets of eyes are better than three."

Will presses his lips together, and rubs his hand over his mouth. Fits his thumbnail at the corner, digging beneath his lower lip, and shakes his head again.

"And," Hannibal adds, his voice softening. He sighs, looks down at his hands. Curls his fingers and stretches them out, finding them shaking. "I want to be near you, Will. I missed watching you work."

And that is true – Will is breathtaking when he's on a hunt. His focus, his determination, his ruthlessness all renders Hannibal mute with admiration. He loves watching Will, always has; deeply enjoys the way Will smiles when he gets the scent, the way he snarls when he's preparing to attack. The way blood looks on his hands and coating his mouth.

Will lets out another harsh, ugly noise, his eyes bright and wet. He blinks, and looks away.

"Knowing what I know now, if I could take back what I've done -."

"Stop." Will holds up a hand, silencing Hannibal's words. "I don't want your regret. It's useless to me."

Hannibal swallows, and nods.

"There's going to be a time, soon, where you won't be able to," he says. "I don't care how stubborn you are, I don't care if Lass is at the front Goddamn door and turns herself in. The second I say you're not fit for the field, you're going to stay here. Until your heat is over."

Hannibal's lips twitch, wanting to smile, but he resists. He doesn't think Will would appreciate it at the moment. "Like a 'good little Omega'?" he asks, quietly challenging, and lifts his chin when Will laughs.

"Like a _smart_ one," he replies, though there is something dark in his eyes, something viscerally pleased – either at the idea of Hannibal obeying him, or Hannibal being 'good', he cannot tell. Perhaps both. "I let my desire for vengeance cloud my judgement, I let it soften and blind me, and look what happened." He gestures between them, and then to his stomach. "I'm not going to let you do the same."

Hannibal does smile, at that. "Why, Will, who knew you were so protective of me."

Will's eyes flash. "You did," he says, sharp and soft. Hannibal cannot deny it.

They call Randall and Alana back in, and Randall immediately goes to Will, nuzzling his hair and purring quietly, seeking to soothe his Alpha's distress. Will smiles at him, and nudges his nose to Randall's cheek, and bids him sit. Alana is less physically affectionate, but she squeezes Hannibal's shoulder, meets his eyes, and only relaxes when he nods and smiles at her.

"Finish your breakfast," Hannibal tells them. "Then we will _all_ go and investigate this observatory."

Will's gaze is dark, his demeanor still thoroughly displeased, but he offers no further protest.


	6. Chapter 6

The observatory sits as a little dome in the middle of a field, and looks very much abandoned as Hannibal drives up to it and parks a little way away. Randall and Alana are in the back seat, behind their respective pack leaders, and Will climbs out of the car first, slamming the door behind him and stepping away.

Hannibal smiles to himself – he was somewhat cruel, on the drive over, insisting that the windows be kept rolled up and the heat on high so that Will was forced to sit and soak in his pre-heat scent. He can see Will rubbing at his nose and mouth as he exits the car, Alana and Randall in tow and forming a loose semi-circle around Will.

Will rolls his shoulders, fixes Hannibal with an accusing glare, and then sets his eyes on the observatory. Nothing moves, save for the light breeze stirring the leaves behind it.

Randall steps forward, lifting his chin and scenting the air. "Can't smell anything," he murmurs. Hannibal nods in agreement – there is only grass, and open air, nothing hinting at the presence of other people for a long while. If this 'Chris' is to be believed, Lass and her people haven't been here for at least a week.

Will starts towards the building and Hannibal hurries to keep pace with him. "If the timeline fits, she packed up and moved just before you were released," he says, though he thinks Will is considering the same thing.

Will nods. There is a small flat concrete area around the front of the building, and he pauses at the edge of it, casting his sharp gaze around. "Maybe she knew you were going to be springing me loose," he says, as coolly as the wind gently brushing against their backs. "I'm sure Chilton and Jack crossed paths enough times that they were somewhat friendly." His lips twitch, hinting at one of his sharp, familiar smiles.

Hannibal's head tilts. "Where do you think she would go?" he asks, as casually as he's able.

"How would I know?" Will replies, but his tone of voice suggests he has an idea. He shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and walks towards the front door. He seems content to simply approach, unafraid of traps or guards or an ambush, and Hannibal follows, his senses keenly attuned to detect anything amiss.

Randall jogs to catch up with Will, touching his shoulder as he reaches for the door. He says something, softly, in that language Hannibal doesn't know – he really needs to figure out what they're saying, at least which language they're speaking in, if he ever hopes to be let in on their exchanges – and Will pauses, his fingers an inch from touching the handle.

Will frowns, and looks at his beta, replying in a soft voice. Randall looks worried, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes bright with Alpha red. Will smiles, and touches his cheek in an affectionate brush of knuckles, shakes his head, and opens the door.

On the inside, it smells of trapped rain and stale air, unbearably damp and humid. The ceiling is open to allow the telescope to peer out, when this place was used, far before Jack and Lass and their people made it one of their bases. There are tarps covering what equipment is left, a chair upended in the corner, a desk in the center, and a small walkway leading to a podium where the telescope used to be – a good place, Hannibal thinks, for announcements.

He walks to it, idly trailing his fingers over the dust-covered railing. There are marks of fingers, some parts of the place covered in much thicker layers of dust that others, hinting at different stages of use. The corners of the main room have puddles in them not-yet evaporated from recent rains. Still, he can smell no hint of another person being here for a while, save for a single note of Alpha that is reminiscent of Will, and Hannibal assumes was Will's informant.

Alana shivers, beside him, her hands in her pockets and pulling the halves of her coat closer to her body. "I don't like this," she whispers to Hannibal, her eyes dark and darting everywhere. Hannibal tilts his head to show he's listening. "This place is too exposed for someone like Jack."

Hannibal cannot help but agree. "Will," he calls, and the Alpha looks at him from where he and Randall are standing, on the other side of the room. "How trustworthy is your informant?"

Will frowns at him.

"This doesn't seem like the kind of place Jack would hole up in," Hannibal explains with a small shrug.

He expects Will to snap at him, to defend his pack member and tell Hannibal to mind his own damn business, and so it's surprising when Will presses his lips together, his eyes moving away. He gives a single, slow nod of agreement.

"Maybe that's why she chose it," he says, almost like a question. "If she thought you were after her, or my pack were, she'd go somewhere we wouldn't suspect."

Hannibal concedes to that with a nod.

Will lifts his chin, takes in a deep breath, and growls – a short, aggravated sound. "I don't smell her here," he says, glaring at the raised platform. "If she's been here, it wasn't recently."

Hannibal sighs. Well, he supposes it was too much to hope for a swift resolution.

Alana startles, beside him, as suddenly there comes the shrill sound of a phone ringing. Will stiffens and Randall tenses, snarling instinctively, and their eyes all move to a desk, set at an off angle towards the middle of the room, lit from above by the split in the open ceiling. The phone is vibrating, too, rattling loudly inside one of the desk drawers.

Will goes to it, and opens it, revealing a burner phone. Hannibal approaches, tensed and suspicious of any kind of trigger or wire attached to the phone – a sentiment Will must echo, for he carefully crouches down, examining the desk, opening the drawers below the phone as well, and carefully drags his fingers around it, before he takes it out and sets it on the table.

The phone stops ringing, and then starts again.

Alana steps forward. "I'll answer it," she says. "A woman will throw them off."

Will nods in agreement, and steps back so she can take it. She answers the call, and puts the phone on speaker, setting it down on the desk again. "Hello?"

There's a crackle from the other end, and then a chipper, female voice answering; "Hello! Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

Will's upper lip curls back, and he lets out a snarl that Hannibal feels more than hears, for that's Freddie Lounds' voice.

"I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours," Alana says.

Freddie laughs. "Oh, Alana, same as always," she replies brightly. "Am I right in assuming Hannibal's with you?"

Will gives him a sharp look, that Hannibal meets. Something passes between them; a single, brilliant flash of understanding and mutual agreement. For a moment, Hannibal is breathless, because Will is looking at him like he used to – and then Will nods, and the moment moves on like another tick of the clock. He and Randall will remain silent, and Hannibal will do the talking.

"Hello, Miss Lounds," Hannibal says pleasantly, stepping closer to the phone so he can be better heard; "This is a surprise."

"Hannibal!" Freddie purrs, and laughs again. "I thought I recognized your car outside."

Hannibal tenses, and Will looks at Randall. He nods, and sinks into a predatory gait, prowling towards the side entrance to the observatory and back outside.

"Why don't you come in, and we can have this conversation face to face?" Hannibal asks.

"Because I'm not stupid," Freddie says coolly. "Now, what are you doing all the way out here, prowling around such a dusty old place?"

"I could ask the same of you," Hannibal says. Will's fingers are white-knuckled at his sides, the Alpha practically vibrating with rage – Will has always hated Freddie, for reasons that predate even Hannibal knowing him, but he knows their rivalry has always been terribly bloody, and vicious.

Randall reappears, and in his hand,  he's holding the detached remains of a camera, connecting wires exposed. He snarls, and throws it to the ground, the lens cracking and the whole device clattering across the floor.

Hannibal sighs. "You're not actually here, are you?" he murmurs.

"Mm, guilty as charged," she says. "And I'm afraid I can't linger long. Give Will my best, will you?"

The call ends, and Will takes the phone and pockets it before Hannibal can grab it. He turns, and kicks at the camera, sending it flying to the wall.

"Will," Hannibal says softly. "We can take the memory card from that camera and see what she saw."

"How did she _know_?" Will snaps, whirling on him. "How did she know I would be here?"

"She probably saw it," Hannibal reasons. "On the feed, just as she saw Alana and myself. And we've made it no secret that you're out of prison and that our packs are realigned. It wouldn't be hard to put two and two together."

Will glares at him, his throat trembling around another low snarl. "She'll tell Lass," he says darkly. "Lass will know we're coming for her. She'll dig herself deeper underground. _Fuck!_ "

He turns away, growling lowly. Randall presses his lips together, sighing through his nose, and goes to retrieve the camera slot from the shattered remains. He hands it to Hannibal, who smiles at him gratefully and takes it, and they leave the observatory. Now that Hannibal knows there were cameras here, he feels prickly, like he's being watched, and can't help scanning the trees for any other telltale signs of metal, of glass and plastic eyes, watching them.

"We'll find her, Will," Alana murmurs.

Will doesn't answer, merely gets in the car. Alana sighs, and they all climb in after, and the silence within the vehicle is oppressive and charged as Hannibal drives back to his home. Randall's car is parked next to Alana's, and the two betas get in their vehicles and drive away.

Will is silent as they enter the house, and Hannibal only pauses long enough to tell Sutcliffe; "Be aware of any unfamiliar faces on this block and for a five-block radius. Inform me and Will immediately of any suspicious activity." Sutcliffe nods, and Hannibal follows Will inside.

Despite himself, the journey out and Will's demeanor have affected him – he aches, to go to Will, to soothe him and touch him and promise everything will be alright. Hannibal can handle it – _will_ handle it, for the sake of his Alpha.

Will is at the foot of the stairs when Hannibal catches up to him. "Will," he says, and Will tenses all over, turns his head only to give Hannibal a glimpse of his red-ringed eyes. "We'll find her. I swear it."

Will doesn't move, for a long moment, and then he moves all at once, turning and lunging for Hannibal, a hand flattening to his throat as he pins Hannibal to the opposite wall, his body colliding with the wood with a dull thud. Will holds him at arm's length and snarls, loud enough Hannibal is sure even the guards outside can hear, yet no one comes inside.

"I could have had her," he hisses. "If you hadn't done what you did, she'd be dead already."

He's not squeezing Hannibal's throat, not threatening to hurt him – Hannibal is sure he can't, and he certainly doesn't need to follow the implication with actual violence. As close to heat as he is, Hannibal's body melts immediately; his shoulders drop and he lifts his chin, exposing more of his neck.

Will blinks, like he's surprised, and lets go of him immediately, looking down at his flexing fingers like they don't belong to him anymore. He breathes out, shakily, and runs his hand through his hair, jerks his head sharply when he tugs.

Hannibal sags against the wall despite himself, breathing in deeply, and his lungs, his mouth, his head are flooded with Will's anger. He tries to swallow back his soft, placating whine, but knows he fails when Will's eyes flash, and another shudder runs through him, his scent turning sour with distress.

"You stupid son of a bitch," he whispers, and he reaches for Hannibal again. Hannibal doesn't flinch, because he would never flinch from Will, and his eyes close as Will cups his nape and brings his head down, letting him rest his nose against Will's pulse. It is steady, despite his anger, and Hannibal clings to the halves of his coat as Will allows him, just for a moment, a taste of what his body craves – Will, his Alpha, strong and fierce and the only person alive that is worthy of Hannibal's teeth.

Will's fingers slide through his hair, clench, just a moment of weakness, before he sighs and pulls back again. His eyes are dark, flat like a mirror, too red for any blue to show at the moment. He presses his lips together, wets them, and steps back, releasing Hannibal in a way that feels like ripping open sutures before they're healed.

"You can't keep going into the field," Will says, after another long, long moment of silence. He holds his hand up before Hannibal can reply. "I mean it." He isn't speaking like he did that morning – not angry, and assured, but almost begging Hannibal to obey him. "You're too close to heat, Hannibal, you're not thinking straight."

Hannibal swallows, and breathes out shakily. "I'm inclined to agree."

Will nods, and his hand drops. His fingers curl, and he wipes them absently on his coat to rid him of Hannibal's scent. The sight of it causes a sharp, outraged flare of heat in Hannibal's chest, but he tamps it down before he can say or do something foolish.

Will swallows, his shoulders rolling. "You have the camera?" he asks, and Hannibal nods, fishing the little memory card and slot from his pocket for Will to see. Will looks at it, takes it, examining it carefully. "Unless it was connected to a separate power source, they probably had to change the battery every few days, probably replaced the memory card at the same time." Hannibal nods in agreement.

Will's eyes lift, and he hands it back. "How long do you think it'd take your people to go through it all?"

"Depends on what we find," Hannibal replies, his voice hoarse. "Not long."

Will nods. "Alright. I'm going to make some calls – if Lounds aligns herself with Lass, we've got a war on two fronts. That's not even considering if Dolarhyde's in on the whole thing. He's a wild card, but as soon as we can figure out whose side he's on, if any, the better."

Hannibal makes a soft sound of agreement.

Will's head tilts, and he sighs through his nose. "You should take some Neutral or something," he mutters. "Take the edge off."

Hannibal shakes his head. "You didn't."

"Rut's not the same, and you know it." Hannibal manages a weak smile, and Will rubs his hand over his mouth again, taking a small step back. "If you're not going to take it, then what's your plan, here?" Hannibal tilts his head. "You have a stand-in or something?"

Hannibal's jaw clenches, and he straightens up, and shakes his head. "I'm not inviting another Alpha to my home when you're…"

"When I'm what?" Will challenges, eyes flashing.

"Around," Hannibal says simply, feeling strangely vulnerable under the weight of Will's gaze. "I'm not going to insult our friendship by taking another Alpha to my bed, Will – I wouldn't even if you were still in prison." He swallows, and adds; "Even if you had died, I wouldn't. The affection I hold for you is too singular for me to even consider it."

He doesn't say that the idea that he would is insulting, because he knows Will means to insult. To wound him, by implying Hannibal's love for him is fleeting, or fake in any way.

It's a subtle change that takes over Will's face, but it affects his entire body – his fingers flex, his shoulders tighten. His throat moves in a swallow and there's a quiet, barely-there quiver to his inhale. Hannibal cannot for the life of him tell the emotion that causes it.

He turns his head away, breaking the gaze, and swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. The noise he lets out is pained, tight, like he's being choked.

"No matter what," he whispers, "you always find a way to hurt me. I have no idea how."

Hannibal shakes his head. "I don't want to hurt you, Will."

Will huffs, and his hand flutters, brief and light, over his stomach. But of course, Hannibal has hurt him – not just physically. Deeply, though, in every way he thinks he could have.

"Get to work," Will says, flatly, and turns away, ascending the stairs. "And I'll do the same."

Hannibal takes a moment to steady himself, so he does not give chase, does not give voice to the frantic, aching cry that threatens to spill from behind his teeth like a scream. "Are you going to join me for dinner?" he asks, instead of everything else he wants to say.

Will pauses, at the top step. Hannibal can only see his shadow.

"No," he finally replies, and it merely makes Hannibal ache further. "And I think anything you have to say to me should go through Alana for a while. Until your heat is over."

With that, he enters his room and shuts the door behind him. Hannibal leans against the wall, knowing that it is the only thing keeping him upright. He stares down at the camera pieces in his hands for longer than he cares to admit. His mouth, his tongue, his lungs still burn with Will's scent – a cruel taunt, teasing him with what he wants more than anything, only to have it ripped away when he is at his most vulnerable.

His fingers curl around it, and he growls lowly to himself, straightening and going to his study. Perhaps this is how it must be, for a while – Will must learn to trust him again, and Will is a man of action. There are no more words Hannibal can give him that will temper his wrath or soothe his betrayal – he has said all he can, and so all that's left is proving, through any means necessary, that he will do whatever it takes to make Will happy.

And he can do that. He must, before his heat comes and he must face the reality of bearing it alone.


	7. Chapter 7

It is frustrating, but not altogether surprising, to find that the camera's memory card yields no promising results. Sutcliffe informs Hannibal that other than a single car coming and going from the site, there's nothing there for the entirety of the feed, which lasts for three days prior to their visit.

"We're running the plates right now," he tells Hannibal. The scent of the mint he's put under his nose to stop himself smelling Hannibal is distracting, and makes Hannibal's nose itch. "I'll let you know as soon as we find anything."

Hannibal nods, drumming his fingers against the table. He wants to tell Will as much, but Will has been doggedly determined in his resolution to avoid Hannibal at all costs, and forcing himself into Will's presence only to tell him they don't have any news is an aggravating idea, and he knows it would not be well-received.

"I want you to do something else for me," he says, and Sutcliffe straightens at attention. "Will and Randall, and I assume most of his pack, communicate in a secondary language. One I cannot identify by ear, and am not fluent in. I'd like you to figure out what they're saying."

Sutcliffe nods, his thin lips pressing together, his brows creasing. "I'll do what I can," he promises, and Hannibal dismisses him with a sigh and a wave of his hand. Despite his normally iron-clad control, he can tell that his oncoming heat is affecting him, worse than he'd anticipated.  It's been three days since their trip to the observatory, and every morning Hannibal wakes soaked in sweat and slick, every night he goes to bed feeling hollow, aching for the presence of an Alpha that will not come to him. During the day, he knows he is distracted and on-edge, too-aware of Will and any other Alpha that comes into his line of sight.

What he needs, he decides, is a good hunt. He's been cooped up in the house too long, and while Will was correct in saying he shouldn't be actively getting himself into trouble, hunting is an ingrained practice in him now. He could do it blind.

Decided, he rises, and goes to his rolodex of business cards. There's a fine layer of dust atop it, which makes his lip curl in aggravation, for it's damning evidence that he has let himself slip for far too long. The last time he went this long without replenishing his stores, Will was in hospital, and then in prison, and Hannibal was suffering through the sickness of their bond breaking, shattering into pieces.

Will is out, tending to his dogs, and so Hannibal doesn't fear him noticing Hannibal's absence for some time. He selects his chosen victim – a dental hygienist who took it upon himself to linger far too long around his neck and went out of his way to note the lack of other marks, patronizingly consoled him for his 'loss' and mentioned that he was nearing the end of his fertile years, that it would be 'a shame' if he went through them unmated.

Hannibal growls to himself, and goes upstairs, rinsing off the caked-in layer of sweat that has dried on him throughout the day. He feels like he's burning up on the inside, desperate for the feeling of cool sweat, warm hands. A dichotomy, he thinks, that heat causes one to be so needy for the heat of another body. He doesn't quite remember the feeling, since the last heat he suffered was long ago, and exists as a haze of red and gold, but he knows, the further along he gets, the more he will ache for an Alpha. For Will.

He shrugs the thoughts away as best he can, and uses his scent-deadening shampoo and body wash for the excursion. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to himself, after all. He dresses lightly, prioritizing range of movement and thin fabric over layers that will hide his scent, and leaves the house, heading to his car.

It is easy to find the man, since it's the middle of a weekday and Hannibal imagines he has a busy docket. He waits in the parking lot outside the office, air conditioning on full blast to try and keep his internal body temperature in check. His eyes narrow in recognition when he sees the Alpha – tall, willowy. Lean. Not good for a hearty roast, but his organs should yield favorable sustenance.

He gets out of the car as the man pauses, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys. The wind changes, carrying his scent over, and the Alpha stiffens, nostrils flaring wide and eyes thickening with red as Hannibal approaches him.

He smiles, widely. "Hello, there," he purrs, in a way Hannibal imagines is meant to be flirtatious. All it does is cause a cold, outraged pulse of anger in his chest – he likes to think Will would feel the same, if he saw what was happening. How dare another Alpha look at Hannibal like that?

"Good afternoon," Hannibal replies, keeps his smile sweet and charming, his voice low and soft. He stops a short distance from the other Alpha – lunging distance – and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, highlighting the fact that it, still, remains unblemished from another's teeth. "Forgive me, but I seem to be having some car trouble. Are you familiar with engines?"

The man's eyes flash. It's so easy to prey upon the instinctive masculinity of Alphas, the kinds who tut 'Oh, sure, sweetheart' and scoff when women and Omegas are interested in sports. "I can certainly take a look," he replies, grinning. Hannibal answers it in kind, and turns his back, tensing when he feels the Alpha's eyes raking over him as he walks to his car. He parked far away from the rest of the cars, in the blind spots of the parking lot cameras, and as he opens the hood of his car, he knows he and the Alpha will be mostly hidden from sight.

"Did you hear any weird noises, or is it just not starting?" the Alpha says, leaning in close to him under the pretense of checking under the hood.

Hannibal clenches his jaw, in no mood to let this linger any longer. The Alpha's scent is powerful and rough, grates against his throat like sandpaper. He reaches out, quickly takes the Alpha's chin and shoulder in hand from behind, and snaps his neck cleanly, grunting as the body sags. He gathers the Alpha up and puts him in the passenger seat upright, buckling his seatbelt, and closes the hood.

He gets in his car and drives home, wondering at how, of all the delights a hunt normally brings him, he finds himself most affected by the idea of butchering this Alpha and serving Will his meat.

 

 

Will is home when he arrives, the body slung over his shoulder fireman-style. He hauls it through the front door – he hardly need worry about prying eyes, since his pack owns this street – and finds Will in the kitchen, his scent sharp with anxiety.

He whirls on Hannibal, and goes utterly still. His shoulders drop as though he's forgotten how to keep them raised, and his fingers curl by his sides. His eyes are red, affected despite himself at Hannibal's heat-scent soaked into the air.

"Where were you?" he demands.

Hannibal hums, and dumps the body on the ground, crouching down to open the hatch to his basement. "I think he," he says, gesturing to the body, "answers that question."

Will is quiet, for another moment, and then he barks out a harsh, hysterical-sounding laugh. "I can't believe you," he says, and Hannibal looks up at him. "You have two, possibly _three_ pack Alphas out for your blood, you're close enough to heat I honestly don't know how you're still coherent, and you went out and got _groceries_?"

Hannibal smiles, and opens the hatch, before he turns and lifts the body up by its shoulders with a grunt. Will watches him struggle for a moment, before he huffs, and comes over, picking up the body's ankles and hefting its knees over his shoulders, helping Hannibal carry it down the stairs and into the basement.

"My stores were running quite low," Hannibal says, voice low and reasonable. They carry the body to the table and, unconsciously, Will joins him in undressing it. It's habit – Will became quite adept at playing assistant once he discovered how Hannibal sourced most of his meat. "As you said, I'm almost in heat. Soon I will not be able to hunt for myself."

He pauses, and Will eyes him, before he hands over the shoes, socks, scrub bottoms and underwear from the body. Hannibal takes them and folds them into a large roll, placing them beneath the table with the man's scrub top and coat.

"Since I have no mate to provide for me, I must make sure I'm prepared."

He's not sure if he expected Will to growl, to flinch, or to laugh at him for that statement. Will doesn't do any of that, merely presses his lips together and hums. "Well," he says flatly, "I'll leave you to it."

"Will." Will pauses, and turns to look at him. Hannibal swallows, fidgeting restlessly, and then gestures to the body. "I could use some assistance, if you wouldn't mind. The drive took longer than I planned for and I will have to hurry to make sure nothing spoils."

It's a weak excuse, and he's sure Will sees right through it. His eyes, dark, rake Hannibal up and down, in a way decidedly more pleasant and much more welcome than the other Alpha had. He sighs through his nose, wets his lips, and nods. "Alright."

Hannibal smiles, heart fluttering with joy that Will agreed to remain with him, if only for a little while. He goes to his rack of tools and begins selecting the saws, knives, and various bowls for harvesting the organs. It's done by rote memory, all instinct, and easy to lose himself to so that he is not distracted.

Will's phone rings, as he's placing the instruments down, and Will takes his phone out and answers it, putting it on speaker. "Alana," he greets. "Hannibal's here."

"Good," she replies. "Randall and I met with Dolarhyde's beta. She said, in her words, 'It's none of our damn business so keep us out of it', so I can assume they're going to keep neutral during this whole thing."

"Small blessings," Will mutters. He looks to Hannibal. "Any word on the camera?"

"Sutcliffe found nothing," Hannibal replies, sighing to himself. "There was a vehicle that visited the observatory several times, and he's running the plates, but I'm not holding out much hope that it will tell us more than what we already know."

Will nods, his mouth twisted into an unhappy frown. Oh, if only Hannibal could ease that look with a touch. He could. He wants to.

Alana makes another annoyed noise. "Figures," she says. "I'll keep digging. Freddie and Miriam don't have the luxury of being totally nameless, and as women they'd stand out in any kind of big meeting. Someone will have talked to them, somewhere."

"Good," Hannibal says. "Be sure to keep me and Will informed."

Alana hums. "You guys are muffled pretty bad," she says. "Where are you?"

"In Hannibal's basement," Will replies, before Hannibal can answer. "Prepping his meals for when he's in heat. Should be soon."

He says the words with no inflection, as if it affected him no more than a storm might slow down traffic – a minor inconvenience. Hannibal winces internally.

"Let me know if I need to bring anything," Alana says.

Will pauses, and his eyes flash over to Hannibal. He tilts his head. "While you're on the phone," he says, in that way he sounds when he's thinking about something, tasting and testing his words before he gives them voice. Hannibal's hands still, and he meets Will's eyes. "Hannibal, who should your pack follow, while you're indisposed?"

Hannibal blinks at him, surprised by the question. For it should be obvious, shouldn't it?

But _no_ , of course, it's not obvious. Not enough to be taken as a given – he understands, immediately, why Will wanted Alana on the phone for this conversation. Because when Hannibal, inevitably, gives Will ruling power over his pack, she will need to vouch for him, to bear witness and lead the pack in obeying Will's designs.

 _Cunning boy_.

Hannibal forces himself to smile, to make his expression and body language appear at ease. "Technically, we are mated in the eyes of the law," he says, and Will's eyes flash, and darken. "'Til Death Do Us Part' and all that."

"So," Will says, cutting and soft, "during the days you're in heat, your pack is to obey me as if they were my own?"

Hannibal sighs. Of course, Will would want it explicitly stated. "Yes," he replies, "though I would hope you would still keep Alana's counsel, during."

Will nods. "Of course," he murmurs, and the smile he gives Hannibal is smug and pleased. Despite himself, Hannibal cannot help shiver, because any shred of approval from Will, in his current state, is going to be well-received.

"Thank you, Alana," Hannibal says. She gives a soft sound of assent, a 'Be safe', and ends the call. Will pockets his phone. "Are you pleased with yourself?"

"Sometimes," Will replies easily, his smile wide and off-kilter, dimpling his cheeks.

"You're not subtle," Hannibal murmurs, and turns his attention to the bone saw, taking it in hand and going to the body's neck. He sets the teeth just below the Adam's apple and begins to cut.

"I wasn't trying to be," Will says. He is silent for a long moment, watching Hannibal work, and when Hannibal is finished, he's warm and sweaty, panting from exertion and from the weight of Will's gaze upon him. He looks up, meets Will's dark eyes, and Will sighs through his nose. "You should rest," he says gently, and puts a hand on the body's pale chest. "I can take it from here."

"I'm not completely helpless, Will," Hannibal replies, somewhat sharply. "I am perfectly capable of finishing a job once I start it."

"I know," Will murmurs. Again, he surprises Hannibal – his hackles remain low, his voice soft. No threat, no anger. There is something, undeniably, prowling behind Will's iris, but Hannibal has not seen it in so long, he cannot recognize it on sight. "And you did a good job. I'm proud of you."

Hannibal doesn't drop the saw, but it's a close thing. He sets it down very deliberately, and braces himself against the table.

"What are you doing?" he demands. It's no secret that mated Omegas delight in their Alpha's pleasure, soak in their praise like a sponge. And Hannibal is not fool enough to think Will doesn't know exactly how saying things like that would affect him, as he is now.

"I'm being honest," Will replies, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. "That's what we agreed, isn't it? To be open and honest with each other?"

"I want to believe you, Will, but you've proven more than once that what you choose to show me is not always what you're actually thinking."

"I guess we have that in common," Will says, smiling. "I'm still pissed at you," he continues. "I think you're stubborn and reckless and I'm looking forward to the last time I ever have to see your face, but that doesn't mean I can't admire your ability to think ahead, and provide for yourself. Like you said," he finishes, his smile turning sharp at the corners, "no one else will."

Hannibal is suddenly so, so very cold. Hollow, and cavernous, and threatening to collapse.

"Does that make you feel better?"

"No," he says hoarsely.

"Good. It's not my job to make you feel better," Will says smoothly. His brow arches, and he folds his arms across his chest.

Hannibal closes his eyes, breathes deep. Tastes only old blood and cooling flesh. "If I could take it back -."

"Again, I'm not interested in your regret," Will says, cutting him off. Hannibal swallows, and wonders if he cut out Will's ability to be kind to him along with everything else. Yes, he must have, for this version of Will is not the one he knew, not the one he treasured and feels so lost without.

He huffs a laugh, and Will lifts his chin. "What's so funny?"

Hannibal shakes his head, straightening, and sighs through his nose. He meets Will's eyes, his own prickling, showing gold in a classic pre-heat symptom. He tries to blink it away, but of course, he can't. Will's shoulders tense when their eyes lock.

"You're still as unpredictable and contradictory as ever," he murmurs. "I find solace in that."

Will's eyes flash. His jaw bulges at the corner as he grinds his teeth together.

"Why?" he demands flatly.

"If you didn't care, you wouldn't be trying to hurt me so badly."

"There's something to be said for vindication," Will snaps. "I'm just treating you how you deserve."

"Because you're invested in my reactions," Hannibal says with a smile. "Hate, and anger, are passionate emotions, Will. I suppose I simply find it reassuring to know that I didn't cut that part out of you along with the rest."

Will's eyes turn black, and he bares his teeth. "Go," he snarls, and Hannibal straightens, knowing he's in no state to resist Will if Will should turn physical.

He nods, and turns, striding across the basement and up the stairs. The entire way there, he can feel Will's dark gaze burning into the back of his neck, like unyielding pressure, and it feels like Will's presence chases him the entire way up to his bedroom. He's so affected by it that, when the door closes, he sheds his clothes and goes back into the shower, ridding himself of the scent-deadening shower gel and shampoo, and touches himself, eyes closed as he thinks about Will coming for him in the middle of the night, all teeth and claws and wild, red eyes.

It is in his hatred, his anger, that Hannibal recognizes him best, and he comes with a soft moan against his fist, wondering, if Will did succumb to the call of his heat, if he'd be able to resist biting Hannibal to the bone.

He emerges from his shower to a text from Sutcliffe. It reads; "I met with Randall and one of Will's generals, an Alpha named Chris. Managed to overhear them talking in that language. It's some combination of Cajun French and a lot of Gaelic – Irish."

Hannibal's head tilts, and his brows rise.

"Meet me this evening and I will give you my best recollection of what I've heard them saying, so you can take it to whoever you need to translate it. Make this your top priority," he texts back, and waits until Sutcliffe responds with a 'Yes, Sir', before he sets his phone down, smiling widely.

 _Gaelic_. Oh, Will, you are full of surprises. He would know Hannibal spoke French, so chose a language Hannibal would not have learned in his youth. _Clever boy_.

But now that he knows, he can begin to learn. Languages come easily to him, and he dresses in a loose-fitting t-shirt, a sweater, and lounge pants, and settles into bed. He grabs his tablet and downloads language courses that include Gaelic, puts his headphones in, and starts to listen.

It's delightful, to know there are still things he can learn about Will after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal spends most of the afternoon and well into the evening listening and absorbing all he can about the dialect Will uses, delighting every time he hears something that sounds familiar. It is coming to him in pieces, but it does come, and at eight at night, he receives a text from Sutcliffe saying that he's outside, ready to report to Hannibal what he has found.

He puts a robe on to help deaden his scent, clammy with sweat despite the air conditioning trying its best to keep him cool during his pre-heat, and goes downstairs, noting that the light under Will's door is on, and the Alpha is likely in his own nest, doing his best to ignore Hannibal's scent as it seeps and soaks into every corner of the house.

He goes to the door, and there stands Sutcliffe, beside a squirrelly-looking older woman who looks like she knows exactly where she is, who Hannibal is, and wishes she were anywhere else. She blinks up at Hannibal rapid-fire and swallows loudly.

"This is Katherine Pimms," Sutcliffe says by way of introduction, gesturing to the woman. Hannibal holds out his hand for her to shake, and she does, her hand small and bony in that way hands tend to get in old age, her skin utterly soft. She tucks her grey hair behind her ears and gives him a bright, if tense smile. "She's an acupuncturist and insect enthusiast, and spent her college years in Ireland. She's fluent in Gaelic."

"It's actually Gaeilge, for the Irish dialect," Katherine informs them primly, smoothing down her long, smock-line dress. "If you want to be accurate."

Hannibal smiles at her, and steps back, gesturing for her to come inside. "You must forgive our ignorance," he says, and she steps in, eyes darting fretfully around the hallway. She isn't wearing a coat and her feet have sandals on them that look cleaner than Hannibal's floors, so he makes no move to tell her to take off her shoes. Sutcliffe follows behind, and Hannibal's nose wrinkles at the mint scent clinging to his upper lip. It's a necessary evil, but quite unpleasant.

Though, technically, he did not command Sutcliffe bring this woman here, he is glad for it since it means he will not have to leave the house, and can get his translations as soon as possible. He is feeling quite light-headed, and hungry – another symptom of pre-heat, where his body wants him to rest and feast to sustain him through the frantic expulsion of energy that a heat typically necessitates.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" he asks, leading Katherine to the dining room. "I have a large selection of teas, and wines, as well as some stronger drinks if you prefer."

"Oh, just water, please," Katherine replies with another smile. "At my age you have to be careful with what you ingest!"

Hannibal laughs, and gestures for her to take a seat at the left-hand side of the table while Sutcliffe fetches her a glass of water. He sits at the head of the table with a sigh, wincing internally at the forced movement of his stiff muscles, locked and flushed as though he has put them through a vigorous workout. The cramps, too, are bordering on unbearable.

She gives him a sympathetic look, but wisely doesn't comment, and smiles in thanks when Sutcliffe returns with a glass of ice water for her. She takes a sip and sits ramrod straight, clutching the glass in her fingers tightly.

"I was hoping you could translate some things for me," Hannibal says. "The conversation I overheard, so Sutcliffe tells me, was a combination of Gaeilge and Cajun French. I already know French, but a large part of the conversation was lost to me."

"Of course," Katherine says. "Do you have it written down, or…?"

Hannibal shakes his head. He repeats, to the best of his ability, the first conversation Will and Randall shared upon their reunion. Katherine's brow creases and she tilts her head, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"If that's their accent, it's atrocious," she says with a weak laugh. "Was this two people speaking?" Hannibal nods. "Well, the first part doesn't translate very well, but essentially it means 'If you still feel this, that means he does too'. There's a word used there which specifically refers to an Alpha-Omega bond, that's what is being referred to. The second part of it is just an acknowledgement."

Hannibal tilts his head, intrigued by that. So, Randall acknowledged the bite, and perhaps felt the need to…warn Will? "I have some more conversation snippets, if you don't mind," he says, as evenly as he can manage. Katherine nods, and takes another drink as Hannibal repeats them to her as best he can.

He is surprised when, after a while, he sees her blush. She clears her throat and sets her glass down again.

"Who are these people I'm translating, if you don't mind me asking?"

Hannibal smiles. "One of them is a dear friend of mine," he replies. "The other is his pack beta."

"I daresay they're very close," she murmurs. "The version of the words you're giving me are very familiar, the way family would speak to each other and not acquaintances. The first part you gave me is 'Thank you for being with me. I don't know what I'd do if I had to deal with this alone', and then 'You just have to remind him who's in charge. You're the Alpha; you're in control'." Hannibal blinks. "And then there's some talk about a woman, I assume this man's mate? I'm not sure; he seems quite taken with her, if that's the case."

Hannibal's head tilts.

Her blush darkens. "Although," she adds, "the pronouns in Gaeilge refer to the subject and the verb and are dependent on the grammatical gender of the subject, so it's possible he's talking about an Omega." She has sharp eyes, and Hannibal wouldn't do her the disservice of thinking she hasn't put two and two together. She swallows again.

He smiles at her, for while what she has told him isn't anything that surprises him, it confirms what he has held hope for in his chest; Will, despite everything, still considers Hannibal close enough to be affected by what he does, by his mere presence. He's weak enough to feel comforted by Randall's company. "Is there anything else?" he asks her.

She shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright," Hannibal says gently. "Would you mind if I kept your number, in case I require more translations from you?" She shakes her head, and gives Hannibal her contact information, before they both stand and Hannibal has Sutcliffe see her out, with a generous payment and another word of thanks.

He is quite hungry at this point, having missed lunch and delayed dinner, and so goes to his kitchen once he hears the front door close, and opens the fridge, smiling when he sees that Will followed through on his promise, and dissected and harvested the dental surgeon Hannibal brought home. All of the pieces of meat and organs are packed in an efficient and utilitarian way, so much like Will that the sight of it warms his chest.

Given his last attempt at cooking, he forgoes making something fresh, and instead pulls out a bottle of apple juice and fills a glass, taking more slices of the bread he'd used to feed Will earlier and buttering them before taking a seat back in his dining room.

He eats, and thinks back over Will and Randall's conversations, eyeing them in the new light of his knowledge. He thinks of the first time Will and Randall reunited, how relieved Will had been to see him there, how happy Randall's presence had made him. Will, clearly, trusts and loves Randall dearly. Hannibal cannot reasonably stop Randall from visiting Will, but he doesn't think Will would refuse him if he asked that Randall stop coming to the house out of respect for his heat.

Of course, that means Hannibal will not be privy to any of their interactions and conversations, and will be even more blind. He could ask Alana to spy on them, but Will would notice soon enough, and Randall is far too suspicious of Hannibal and his kin to simply allow her to hover within their shadows.

He finds it almost surprising that Will and Randall have been exclusively talking about him. Hannibal would have expected at least part of their conversations to be about Will's pack, their battle plans, locations, and strategies. He would have expected Will to ask about his other generals, or for updates of what has happened while he was in prison, but no – he only, so far, has used that language to discuss Hannibal.

It borders on the line of obsession, but it occurs to Hannibal that _Randall_ has been very open regarding his and Will's relationship. He's the one who keeps reminding Hannibal how good of an Omega he's being. He's the one who has been bringing up the rules and standard practices of how Omegas should be handled when a pack Alpha is gone.

And he's right; Hannibal has been cooking for Will, accommodating him, keeping the home as much as he's able. He has, in his own paltry way, been trying to be a 'good' Omega for his mate, although it's never something Will demanded of him before. When they were still good friends, before that fateful night and terrible betrayal from both sides, Will never asserted himself as Hannibal's mate, never spoke against him except when it mattered, always did what he was asked and offered to help when he sensed Hannibal needed it.

Will is a man who will go out of his way to please his friends, he values the pack bond and loves the family he has forged together with iron and blood. Despite how he is behaving, he still clearly considers Hannibal part of that inner circle.

Hannibal sighs, letting out a soft, frustrated growl. This is all so infuriating, made even worse by the brimming madness of his heat that simmers at the base of his skull. If only he could _go_ to Will, and touch him, and offer his neck and his slick and whatever else Will desired of him. If only they could speak plainly to each other once again, and lay everything out in the open without the salt and bitterness of their past staining everything black. If only Will would _talk_ to him.

He cannot tell Will he has access to a translator. He cannot reveal that he's learning the language himself, lest he forfeit that advantage and Will becomes utterly silent, unwilling to even whisper in dark corners to Randall and reveal more of his inner thoughts and intentions. But the fact of the matter is that Hannibal will likely be useless to heat within forty-eight hours, and there is still so much to be done. He doesn't think Will, as he is right now, will come to Hannibal during his heat. He can't promise himself that, and so he will do nothing to further jeopardize it.

His thoughts are interrupted by the devil himself, as he hears the floorboards and then the stairs creak as Will comes downstairs. He lifts his head as Will's shadow darkens the doorway, the Alpha stops and breathes in deeply, his eyes thinly ringed with red.

Will blinks at him, his fingers curling, and then frowns, scenting the air more deliberately. "Who was just here?" he asks. He would know the scent of every one of Hannibal's generals, and the packmates allowed access to the house. He would also know that Hannibal, in his current state, would be loathe to let just anyone inside.

"An informant Sutcliffe found for me," Hannibal says, the lies coming easily even though they must pass by a small knot of guilt clogging his throat. He shouldn't lie to Will – that's what got them into this mess in the first place. "I had hoped to glean more information on Lass' location, but unfortunately I know nothing more than I did this morning regarding her."

Words carefully chosen. If Will suspects, he doesn't show it. He merely hums, his eyes dropping to Hannibal's empty plate and near-empty glass. His frown deepens.

"You should be eating meat," he murmurs, a borderline scold.

"I wasn't feeling in the right mind to cook," Hannibal replies, and that is true enough. Will cocks his head to one side, his fingers curling in the bottom of his shirt again, his weight shifting. He looks restless, jittery, perhaps fighting with all his might to keep distance between them. Hannibal is sure that his scent is not suitable for polite company.

Will presses his lips together, swallows, and says; "I can make something for you. It won't be to your normal standards but…" He trails off, flushing prettily, and Hannibal tilts his head, surprised by the offer.

"Thank you, Will," he murmurs. "I'm sure whatever you make will be more than suitable."

Will nods, once, sharply, and disappears through the door leading to the kitchen, not entering the dining room at all. The light turns on, and from where he is sitting, Hannibal can see his tensed, risen shoulders, see the back of his messy hair as he goes to the fridge and pulls out one of his packages. He watches Will turn one of the gas hobs on, watches him take out and grease a pan. He's chosen to fry-cook a chunk of thigh meat, if Hannibal had to guess, from the shape of it and the heavy 'thunk' it makes as he unwraps it and places it straight into the pan once it's hot enough.

His nostrils flare, wanting to catch more of Will's scent. Every cell in his body is screaming for him to go to the Alpha, to press up tight to his back, to nuzzle his neck and breathe in the scent of him. To feel Will's heat and strength, to assure himself that, unlike last time when the breaking bond threatened him with madness, Will is _here_. He's here and he's not going anywhere.

He resists. Barely.

Good Omegas do what they're told, and Hannibal is obviously meant to sit and stay, even if Will didn't say the words.

He is sure Will can feel his gaze on the back of his neck, though Will moves no differently or makes any motion to acknowledge him. He sighs through his nose, absently dabbing sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe. He feels terribly overheated, enflamed by the sight of Will. He wants, more than anything, for Will to simply look at him.

Will finishes with the meat soon enough, and plates it, and takes a few more slices of bread and sets them next to the meat. With it, a steak knife and a fork, which he sets upon the plate, and brings to Hannibal quickly, setting it before him.

He steps back before Hannibal can summon the wherewithal to reach for him, and grabs his glass instead, disappearing to the kitchen once again to refill it. He comes back with a full glass of juice for Hannibal, and a tumbler of whiskey for himself, iced and sweating around his fingers.

Hannibal swallows, and can only stare, as Will slowly pulls out the right-hand seat, and sits.

He drinks, meets Hannibal's eyes, and takes one of the slices of bread, his teeth ripping a large bite through it, before he sets it back down on the plate. Of course – Alpha eats first. He washes it down with whiskey and sets his elbows on the table.

All of Hannibal's breath leaves him at once, and with it comes a pitiful, unbidden whine. Will stiffens, and his eyes move to Hannibal's hands, which are stuck in stasis on either side of his plate.

He swallows another mouthful of his drink, and says firmly; "Eat. It'll get cold."

Hannibal's fingers twitch, and he obeys on autopilot, slicing off a bite of meat and eating it. It's plain, only seasoned with salt, but tastes wonderful for the fact that Will made it for him. His Alpha harvested and chose the cut for him, cooked it, and brought it here, and that in of itself would be a grand gesture. As fuzzy-headed and off-kilter as Hannibal feels, it comes across as nothing short of a blessing.

Made worse by the fact that Will is sitting so close. His scent overpowers the meat; he's helpless to ignore the call of Hannibal's heat, can undoubtedly smell him, and his body, tricked and linked together through the mating bond that never quite came to fruition, his own scent is thick and sharp, promising strength, power, promising everything Hannibal could ever want if he merely bared his neck and asked for it.

He swallows, and brushes the front of his throat, because it's difficult to do so of his own volition. The bite of meat feels heavy, sinks down his esophagus and behind his heart like a stone.

"I've been speaking with Chris and Randall," Will murmurs. Hannibal nods, absently acknowledging that, simply drunk – or perhaps high – on the sound of Will's voice. He keeps eating because it feels like that's all he can do. "Chris told me that he doesn't understand why the observatory was abandoned. He was there mere days before we were and smelled her clearly."

"Perhaps," Hannibal says, slowly, because his thoughts and therefore his words are swimming in molasses, "there was some sanitation effort made, to keep us off her trail."

Will nods, his lips pressing together again, his eyes fixed doggedly on his glass of whiskey. He swirls it around, and takes another drink like he's throwing back a shot of poison. He sets the glass down, empty now, with a hiss.

"How long does your heat last?"

"The last one I had was…three days, if memory serves," Hannibal replies. "Though I'd say the day after I was quite affected by it, still, and unable to do much. So four, once it truly hits."

"You've got one Hell of a warming period," Will says quietly. He takes another drink, and it feels like he's gearing up for something. Hannibal feels like he's on fire, like every bone in his body has been engulfed in warmth and salt. His hands shake and it's getting difficult to keep cutting, so he sets his knife and fork down and focuses on the bread instead.

Will is silent, while he eats, and then he says rather abruptly; "I want to bite you."

Hannibal almost chokes on his mouthful, and reaches for his glass with a trembling hand, drinking down half of it as he tries to recover. Oh, _Will_ , what a cruel man you are. But yes, _yes_ , anything he wants, Hannibal would give him. Anything at all.

"I need your blood. I need a Voice. Lass will probably have appointed a woman as her beta but Jack's generals were mostly men. I'll need to be able to compel them if it comes to that. And anyone working for Freddie, too."

Hannibal clears his throat, and rasps; "Did you purposely wait until I was in no state to deny you?"

Will's lips twitch at the corners, and he finally, _finally_ , meets Hannibal's gaze. There is so much red in his iris, Hannibal would believe him to be in rut if he were any lesser man. "And if I did?"

"Then I think I could only admire you more," Hannibal says openly.

Will's smile widens, just for a moment. It's one of his real, wide smiles, the ones he used to give Hannibal often before he was locked away. Hannibal could weep at the sight of it. "Is that a 'Yes', then?"

"Such a thing would likely send me into heat," Hannibal says, and he isn't sure why he says it, for surely Will knows that. A warning, maybe, or a promise, or something desperately begging without quite using the words. "Without a reciprocal bite, it would fade before my heat was over, unless…"

_Unless._

It's a fool's hope, but Hannibal is a fool, for he hopes, nonetheless.

"I'm aware of the timeline," Will purrs in answer, still smiling wide, so wide. Cruel, terrible, utterly _wonderful_ -. "Are you willing to offer me your neck again?"

Hannibal can only nod.

"Good," Will says, and drinks the melting ice, setting the glass down. He stands, and reaches out for Hannibal's steak knife, pulling it far enough away that Hannibal cannot reach for it. The reminder, the evidence of his distrust, freezes Hannibal in place, as Will circles the corner of the table and steps close to him.

He leans down, and flattens a hand in Hannibal's hair, forcing him to lift his head. To show the vulnerable arch of his neck. His pulse is racing, every part of him flushed and trembling, and Will leans down and presses their foreheads together.

He breathes in, deeply, and Hannibal's lips part to swallow his exhale.

"I'm not entirely without mercy," Will says, and that is a promise, Hannibal knows what Will's promises sound like. He tugs on Hannibal's hair, pulls away, and kicks his chair out, so Hannibal has no choice but to stumble to his feet. Will is strong, is the powerful one now, and he pulls Hannibal to him and Hannibal goes, no notion in him to resist.

He collapses against Will, nosing at his neck, another pitiful, wanting noise escaping him as Will's fingers curl around his nape. Will smells so _good_ , mint and lemongrass and liquid strength. Everything Hannibal wants, _needs_.

"Shh," Will purrs, a rumble in his chest that Hannibal wants to sink his teeth into. Will's other hand flattens on his throat, forces his chin up, and away, and he turns Hannibal and pushes him until his shoulders press flat to the wall.

He pushes himself close to Hannibal, and Hannibal groans, pawing roughly at his hips as he feels Will's erection grinding against his own, rutting fervently between Hannibal's eagerly spread thighs. He closes his eyes, tips his head back as instinct demands only when he's too weak to resist it, and whimpers when he feels Will's sharp fangs edge along his pulse.

" _Will_ ," he gasps, and he wants, he wants so badly he's blind with it. To have Will touching him like this, to feel his teeth and his hands and his body, this is all Hannibal ever wanted for them – to trust and know each other, as intimately as two men can.

Will growls, and his hands move, one flattening over Hannibal's mouth, the other dipping between their bodies to curl around Hannibal's cock through his lounge pants, squeezing so tight and warm that Hannibal's knees sag and buckle. "Don't talk," Will whispers. Hannibal couldn't if he tried.

When Will bites him, it's as gentle as he did the first time – Will knows how to angle his teeth, knows how to be gentle when it suits. When they bit each other all those years ago, it was as polite as a handshake and as intimate as if Will had opened his own chest and allowed Hannibal to see his heart. This, despite everything, is no different, and as he feels his flesh give and split open for Will, so too does his body seize and quake, his hands clutch at Will's shoulders, and he grinds and spills against Will's hand with a wretched, sated sound.

Will swallows his blood, tongues at his neck to ease out another mouthful and takes that too. Hannibal clutches at Will's neck, at his hip, desperately trying to get Will close to him, he would give Will anything he asked for, anything he wanted, if only to keep Will this close.

The moment passes, as all moments must, and Will, when he withdraws with one final lick over Hannibal's scent gland, does so with all the effort it might take to move a mountain. He releases Hannibal entirely and forces himself back, breathing ragged and slow through his mouth, his teeth and lips red.

Hannibal reaches for him, desperate, so desperate, but Will steps back again and his snarl snaps across the backs of Hannibal's eyes. "No," he hisses, and though he has no Voice yet, the word is as powerful a rejection as if he used one, and Hannibal falls back against the wall, fiercely clutching for a handhold, finding none.

He sinks to his heels, and Will wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, eyes the stain of blood, and wipes it on his shirt, as if it means nothing more to him than an errant spatter of mud. Hannibal trembles, gasping, and feels suddenly so cold and so bereft he might simply collapse and never rise again.

Will snaps his teeth together, and when Hannibal raises his eyes, he surprised to see anger etched deep into Will's face. "You lied to me _again_ ," he snarls, and Hannibal can only blink, struck silent. Will's mouth twitches into an ugly snarl, so bitter and angry. "How many fluent Gaeilge speakers do you think there are in Baltimore? Who do you think taught me in the first place, Hannibal? I'm not stupid."

…Oh. _Oh_.

"Will -."

"Shut up, don't you fucking dare," Will snaps, and Hannibal tries to reach for him again, surprised when Will, this time, allows his touch to land. He grips Will's shirt tightly, pulling at him, and Will shakes his head and wipes his hand over his eyes. Hannibal stares up at him, watches with something akin to horror as the mask sweeps down over Will's face again. His shoulders tense, and lower, and he has the bearing of a general about to lead his army to their death.

Will pulls on his shirt, and yanks it over his head, leaving Hannibal clutching at it with both hands. "A parting gift," he snarls, and steps out of reach. "I'll have Alana come check on you. I'm leaving."

 _No_. Will can't _leave_. Hannibal growls, and forces himself to his feet. His neck aches and every part of him is shaken and feels so weak, but he will not let Will _leave_ him. Not after this.

Will is fast, however, and is practically at the door before Hannibal catches up with him. He turns as Hannibal lunges and they end up in a messy coil of muscle and sweaty flesh, as Hannibal slams him against the door, adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright. It is, without a doubt, the most high-stakes hunt he's ever taken part in.

Will snarls at him, baring bloody teeth – Hannibal's blood, staining them. He expects Will to lash out, to hurt him or strike him or do something else to force Hannibal away, so he can escape – even though he knows Will would never hurt him intentionally, this is far from normal circumstances. Will's eyes are so _red_.

But he knows what will gentle an angry Alpha. He swallows, and presses a hand over Will's chest, over his racing heart. "Don't leave me like this," he says, and makes his voice as soft and sweet as he can. Will's eyes flash, and lower to the undoubtedly-raw-looking bite mark he left behind. "Will, _please_."

Will wets his lips, his nostrils flaring. He shakes his head, and there are too many emotions on his face for Hannibal to decipher them all.

Will swallows, swallows again. "I half-expected you to grab the knife," he whispers. His voice is raw, hoarse. His throat remembers the taste of its mate's blood, the withered growth on his vocal cords is likely already starting to swell and grow again, to give him his Voice.

Hannibal's eyes drop, his hand drops, to the long scar on Will's stomach. "I don't want to hurt you," Hannibal murmurs, and that much is true.

Whether Will believes him or not, he gives no answer either way. He grabs Hannibal's hand, and firmly pushes him, forcing to take a step back down the hall. "I'm coming back," he says, and Hannibal whines, another unbidden noise, that makes Will's jaw clench and his eyes flash. "I swear, I'm going to come back."

"I don't believe you," Hannibal whispers.

Will's eyes soften, and his mouth curls up in a smile that isn't quite kind. "I know," he replies, and somehow it sounds like 'I'm sorry'. He reaches out and curls a hand around the back of Hannibal's neck, and pulls him in until their chests are pushed flat together. His head tilts, seeking, and Hannibal gasps as his lips, soft and warm and stained with blood, touch his own.

 _That_ does it. Triggers whatever his body was waiting for to leap the last few paces into a full-blown heat. His spine melts, liquified under the onslaught of heat, his body clenches and floods, soaking through his clothes. Sweat breaks out anew on his brow and the small of his back, and he kisses Will fiercely, lips parting to allow Will to lick behind his teeth, sharing the iron-salt of his own blood. Will kisses like the only air is in Hannibal's lungs, like the only water exists in his mouth, takes it and swallows it down, nails in Hannibal's nape pressing on the points in an Omega's neck to keep them pliant and still.

He pulls away so abruptly that Hannibal is left leaning into him. He tugs his shirt from Hannibal's limp fingers, shrugs it on, and opens the door. Sutcliffe is outside, and even despite the mint on his upper lip, clogging his scent glands, it's clear he can smell Hannibal well enough.

"Lock the door and only let Alana inside," Will tells Sutcliffe, and then he looks over his shoulder and gives Hannibal one last smile, too smug and wicked to be happy, and leaves the house, pulling the door closed behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry I've been gone for so long. Everything IRL started happening all at once and my battery got drained /real/ hard. I hope you guys like the chapter!

Everything is a haze, liquid heat that feels as though it has flooded from behind a burst dam, washing away everything within him; bone, muscle, his own will. The heat comes as a flood, a heavy rush of something unnamable and powerful, turning his thighs weak, his spine molten, his brain to ash.

He makes it upstairs, somehow – oh, Alana is here. She's helping him. He cannot remember, doesn't know, how long it's been. How long had he been trembling and shaken within his own foyer, trying to remain in control of his faculties as heat had ravaged his mind? Had he made a sound – is that soft, mournful wailing coming from him? It must be. Stricken, frantic noises tug at his throat and ravage his chest, he _aches_ , good God does he ache. It's been six months since anything felt this terrible, and for the same person, and for much the same reason.

The forcible breaking of a bond, be it through sickness or death, through betrayal or simply one party wanting to remove itself from the other, can kill if the vessel feeling it is too weak to maintain itself. Broken-heart syndrome had always seemed like such a fickle thing to him, though he could not deny there were legitimate medical cases supporting the theory. How fragile the human body must be, he had thought, that the absence of one's mate can simply cause the heart to give up on itself?

How sentimental. How powerful a thing love and attachment is.

He flinches when his feverish skin comes into contact with cool water. A bath, Alana has drawn him a bath, and he falls unceremoniously within it, only her sharp and wary eyes and quick reflexes saving him from cracking his skull on the back tile. Her face swims in and out of focus in his grey-edged gaze, remains only as a void, a shadow, and he never noticed how similar she looks to Will, with her dark wavy hair, her blue eyes, her ever-creased brow and down-turned mouth.

He makes a weak, terribly pathetic noise, and closes his eyes, tipping his head back. The water is cool and does wonders for his fever, though he knows it's only a paltry relief, and will not last long.

"What happened?" she demands, though Hannibal hears it as though through a fog, and her voice is discordant, and not even immediately recognizable as English. Her scent is too sweet, lacks the sharpness of Will's lemongrass and mint scent. His mouth is flooded, and he turns his head, spitting into the bathwater. His teeth feel so dry, too dry; they ache for his mate's sweat, for his blood. He aches for Will.

She touches the oozing bite mark on his neck – ah, it must not have been long since Will left. Perhaps Will called her before he enacted his plan. Hannibal flinches, and snarls vehemently at her, unwilling to bear another's touch on such a sensitive place. His neck is only for Will.

Will. _Will_. Where is Will?

Whether she grows impatient with him, or whether he makes another pathetic, helpless sound that effectively communicates his lack of ability to answer, he doesn't know. He feels as though he is existing outside of his body, and yet too aware of it. Every twitch of muscle, every random firing of electricity in his synapses dances like colored light behind his eyelids. It's an overwhelming cacophony of sensation; the cool water, the flush on his face, the way his fingers twitch and judder, trying to reach for someone who isn't here.

It's so much worse than when Hannibal sent Will away. At least, back then, he knew where Will was. He knew, in his subconscious, that he would be able to find him. He doesn't know where Will is, as it stands, he doesn't know how to find him now, and it's a terribly unsettling, frantic feeling clawing at his chest, demanding he run and hunt his mate down. At the same time, he must stay home, like a good Omega, and wait. Alpha will be angry if he comes home and Hannibal isn't here.

Alana lets out another frustrated sound, and there's a clatter too-loud, plastic against tile. He opens his eyes to slits and sees her throwing her phone against the ground, the screen cracking and forming a spider-web pattern from the corner. "He's not answering," she says with another soft growl, and looks at Hannibal helplessly. "What happened?"

Is it not obvious? Should Hannibal have painted a sign?

He turns his face away, breathing in deeply. His clothes, sodden and likely ruined with his slick and now the water, cling to him, and suddenly it is too much to bear the friction of wet cotton and silk. He tugs at his tie frantically, hauls it over his head and off to one side, and his suit jacket follows. He kicks off his shoes with a childish splash of water, but leaves them to soak in the tub, too out of it to pick them up and place them out of the water.

He doesn't care if they're ruined. It doesn't matter. _Where is Will_?

He has observed Omegas in the throes of heat, poor wayward things dumped on the emergency room doorstep halfway to Hell, babbling and thrashing against any Alpha orderly who tried to attend to them. Some of them so savage it would have been kinder to put them down. Others only calming when their Alpha arrived to take them home, or were given Neutral to interrupt their heat and stave off the effects. It feels like some great creature is clawing at his head, gnawing absently at the base of his neck and salivating over the messy pool his brain has become. He is being devoured from the inside out, and it hurts, _Lord_ does it hurt, it aches so sharply, like he has been starving for years. It settles behind his eyes like a migraine. His stomach feels so empty, cavernous, and because of that emptiness, trembles and is weak around its own air.

 _Where is Will_?

How cruel his mate is, to render Hannibal to nothing more than shivering flesh and quivering lungs, to desperate little puffs of air tailed with whines, to sweat and sinew and ravenous want. He is glad Alana cannot truly hear how terribly pathetic the noises he's making are.

It takes every shred of his capability and control to clear his throat, and force himself to say, "Something's wrong."

Alana gives him a deeply sad, sympathetic look. "It's just your heat talking," she says gently. She pets through his sweaty, sodden hair, pushes it back from his face, and though her touch isn't what he wants, she is familiar and known enough to him for him to find some comfort in it. "You're going to be okay. I know it seems bad now, but -."

But _nothing_. Something is wrong. Something in the way Will smiled at him feels wrong. Will did something, or is planning to do something. He waited, he waited, and then he struck and left Hannibal coiled and writhing from his own venom. Will is immune to the poison of a snake, devours the cobra with malice and intent, and Hannibal is choking on his own saliva, coughs when he breathes in too quickly.

He can't think. Everything in his head is screaming for his mate and Will _isn't here_.

Alana sighs through her nose, and helps him out of his waistcoat and shirt, piling everything in the sink so that it doesn't get the floor all wet. It doesn't matter – Hannibal may flood the place by the time he's through. It is lava, a slow roll of destruction ravaging his body. Soon it will take him like the tide, and he will be nothing of the man he is.

Oh, how he _despises_ heat. _Where is Will_?

"Come on," Alana murmurs, and hauls him upright with a grunt. He tries to help her, wet hands scrabbling at the edges of the tub as the water sloshes around them, drenching the bottom of her dress and her shoes. She gets him upright and forgoes the towel, helps him out and to his bed. She strips him with the kind of utilitarian precision a mother of a young child can have – 'It's time for bed, quit your bellyaching' – and pulls his sheets and blankets around him.

Then, she leaves, and Hannibal curls up, shuddering and shivering as the water and his own slick seeps into the sheets. She returns with a duvet cover, though there is no duvet inside it. Hannibal's nostrils flare, smelling plastic and cold, and she lays the cover out beneath the sheets on the other side of his bed, and forcibly rolls him onto it.

It's filled with cold packs, and does wonders to settle Hannibal's fever, even if his skin twitches and smarts against the feeling. He settles onto it with a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his sweaty forehead against his pillows. The bed smells far too much like him, and only him, lacking the soothing scent of his Alpha.

She has something else with her, and Hannibal hears her wrapping his second pillow up in it, before she presses it against his chest. Hannibal flinches, and gasps, for it smells like Will. It's one of his sweatshirts, not yet washed and so his scent is thickly embedded in the fabric. He clutches it to his chest and breathes Will in, and wonders if he looks as much like a sickly child as he feels.

She retrieves her phone and takes off her shoes, so Hannibal no longer hears the click of her heels, but the soft slide of her feet against the floor. The bed dips behind him and Alana holds him gently, careful not to make it seem like she's trying to pull Hannibal away from Will's scent. Good – Hannibal would kill her if she tried.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, and Hannibal sighs. No, he's not hungry. At least, not for something she can provide. Soon the heat will ebb, he knows that, he can remember what the ones in his youth felt like – soon it will dissolve into a steady, pulsing warmth, his body growing hot and ready to bear young for his Alpha, even though Hannibal made sure he could not do so, a long time ago.

He shakes his head, and shivers when she hugs him just a little tighter.

"Something's wrong," he rasps. Can't she see that? Will, for all his cruelty, would never do something like this to him without cause. He knows how terrible an unsatisfied heat is for an Omega, he would never forcibly trigger one in Hannibal and then just _leave_. And certainly, he would not leave for so long – it feels like it's been days, months, since he saw Will, since he heard his voice.

His mouth burns, tender and pink from Will's kiss. Will promised he would come back. Where is he? _Where is Will_?

Alana begins to hum to him, a soothing song designed to lull him to sleep. Hannibal is too exhausted to resist.

 

 

He wakes much the same as when he fell asleep, only now he is drenched in sweat and slick, trembling so fiercely he may shatter the bed by its posts. Alana is in the room, though she is no longer holding him, but perched at the little seating area at the foot of his bed. As he stirs, she rises, and brings with her a glass of ice water.

"Drink," she coaxes, and makes Hannibal sit up so he can. "I have to replace the icepacks. Try and move when you're ready."

Hannibal drinks, parched and dehydrated from losing so much water in so short a time. The coldness of the water makes his stomach cramp, though perhaps that is just his heat behaving as normally, punishing him for his emptiness. His internal muscles are rippling and clenching as though in anger, cruelly denied what his body is promising him he will get.

He gives her the glass back and moves so she can retrieve the duvet cover filled with icepacks, which is now soaking wet from condensation and his own sweat. She rolls it and hoists it over her shoulder, and leaves the room with another gentle, soothing touch to his forehead.

Hannibal sighs, and reaches for the pillow wrapped in Will's sweatshirt, dismayed to note that because of his overwhelming scent, Will's is almost completely gone. Still, he clings to it, rubbing his nose against the soft fabric and breathing him in as deeply as he can.

He is somewhat more coherent, thankfully – the first wave of heat has crested, and the tides are waiting to rise again. He shudders, grimacing at the feeling of so much slick between his legs. It leaks like blood, pooling between his thighs, so much that even his ankles are wet.

Alana returns with a fresh duvet cover and more icepacks, and another glass of water, which Hannibal drinks as she sets the covering out again. "How long has it been?" he rasps.

"A little over fifteen hours," she replies, soft with sympathy. Hannibal frowns down at the empty glass, and sets it to one side. He rubs his hands over his face.

"Has Will returned?" he asks.

Her eyes are so soft, so terribly sad. Pity, that's what she's looking at him with. Hannibal hates that look. "No," she replies, just as gently as before. "And he's not answering his phone."

Hannibal stifles a snarl, and says again; "Something's wrong."

She sighs. "Hannibal -."

"He should be back by now," Hannibal argues. If nothing else, to get more of Hannibal's blood, for without a reciprocal bite, the Voice he gained from biting Hannibal will fade within twenty-four hours. If it's been over half that time, he would have come back for more. He can't find the words to articulate that, and so he adds; "He promised he would come back."

She doesn't answer, except to sigh again. It's clear she doesn't put any weight behind Hannibal's words – they are just the heat-drunk babbling of a lovesick Omega. Of course they are; Hannibal isn't himself at the moment.

He tries to think back on Will's words and actions from the night before. Tries to decipher what his plan might be. If Will simply wanted to make Hannibal suffer, he's certainly succeeding, but even a trip to tend to his dogs would have had him back within a few hours. If he's not here, it means he's somewhere else, he could be anywhere else.

He said he needed a Voice to go after Lass. That must mean he had an idea of where to find her – maybe Will knows more than he's been letting on. Hannibal wouldn't put it past him, God knows he's done the same. But he doesn't understand, even then, if Will knows where she is and went after her, why it's taking so Goddamn long.

He tries to think. He tries, he tries, but thoughts of Will spurn his body into action again, a desperate readiness that paws at the ground and howls, wanting, wanting. If Will walked through the door right now he wouldn't be able to take a step before Hannibal was on him, taking everything he knows Will wants to give him.

He knows Will loves him, because love isn't a question of choice. He knows Will hates him, because hate is negotiable but primal, and Will is a man incredibly in tune with his instincts. He doesn't know if Will has forgiven him – likely not – but Hannibal would take any touch, anything from Will at this moment, even if it was rough and base and everything he knows Will is not.

If he were to emerge from this room, clawed and bitten to oblivion, he would bear it if it were Will using him, and isn't that a terrifyingly vulnerable state in which to be?

Alana is still watching him, and after another moment she sighs, and touches his hand. "Is there anything else I can get you?" she asks. She's such a good pack beta, Hannibal is so lucky to have her.

He turns his hand and squeezes hers tightly. "Find him," he begs. _Bring him to me_. The second part is as loud as if he'd screamed it.

She nods, and stands, forcing him to lie back down on the icepacks and tucking him in. She brushes his sweaty hair from his forehead and gives him a warm, comforting smile. "I'll be back as soon as I have news," she promises, and Hannibal nods, and closes his eyes, and tries to get what little of Will's scent he can from the second pillow, clutching it tightly to his chest.

 

 

Hannibal wakes to a loud crashing sound, and Alana shouting. She doesn't sound afraid, which is good, but as Hannibal is right now, he's incredibly vulnerable, and tense, in no state to fight but ready for it all the same.

"You can't go in there! Randall, stop!"

Hannibal's door opens, revealing the young Alpha, whose eyes are red and wide, his teeth bared in a snarl. He freezes when he sees Hannibal, every line of him tense and trembling, and Hannibal stiffens as well. He's in heat, and Randall is as red-blooded an Alpha as Will is. This is a dangerous situation.

Alana appears and forces herself past Randall, turning and shoving at his chest. "You need to _leave_ ," she hisses, not at all afraid. Randall snaps his teeth together and glares at Hannibal with all the fury of Hell in his eyes.

"Where is Will?" he demands. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

"This is a conversation we can have _outside_ ," Alana snaps, and shoves at him again, hard enough that he takes a step back. "Hannibal's in heat, you dumbass – you need to _leave_."

"I'm not leaving without Will!" Randall snarls at her. Hannibal is, once again, supremely glad Alana is a woman, and cannot hear how low and threatening Randall's snarl is. It makes every muscle in him tense up and tremble – angry Alphas and in-heat Omegas are not a good mix.

But he needs to concentrate, he needs to pay attention. He cannot simply hide away and wait out this storm.

He pushes himself upright, pulling one of his blankets around his shoulders to hide and dampen as much of his skin and scent as he can, and coughs; "You don't know where he is?"

"No," Randall snaps. "He's been radio silent for almost two days." Was Hannibal asleep that long? Small mercies, he supposes. "I can't reach him, can't trace his phone. It's like he fucking disappeared." He levels his glare on Hannibal again, and Hannibal flinches and fights the urge to bare his neck, to try and appease. It would be wrong to show his throat to anyone but his mate, no matter how much his body has started to scream less for a specific Alpha, and more for _any_ Alpha. He shudders at his own fickle mind.

But Will is missing. Will's own pack beta doesn't know where he is, and that's not a reassuring thought in the slightest. Despite Will's secrecy towards Hannibal, Hannibal doesn't think he would hide his plans from Randall, which means something went wrong.

Something is _wrong_.

"Alana," Hannibal hisses. "Bring me a Neutral shot."

She blinks at him, clearly surprised. Neutral will not stop his heat, only buy him some time, but that's all he needs for the moment. Will might be the one responsible for Hannibal's suffering right now, but he'll be damned if he stays here, whining and feeling sorry for himself, when his mate could be in danger.

"Randall," he adds. "Tell Sutcliffe to send out all his men and find Will's generals. Give him names, so we can track him down. Tell him I told him to give you whatever you need."

Randall snarls, upper lip curling back. "I'll be back," he promises. "You have an hour to get your head on straight before then."

Hannibal nods, too exhausted and strung out on his heat to even be offended by Randall's threat. Alana glares at Randall's back, and shuts the door behind him forcefully, before she turns to Hannibal.

"You really want Neutral?" she asks.

Hannibal nods. He's not as strong as Will, to make it through a rut or heat clear-headed enough to function without it. He's too unfocused, not at all calm enough, and if he stands a chance of finding Will again, he'll need to be as clear-headed as he can be.

Hannibal gave Will the permission to lead both their packs while Hannibal was out of commission, but in Will's absence, it is Hannibal's right and duty, as his mate, to lead where he cannot. Their futures and destines hang on the edge of a sharp knife, a single string all too easy to cut.

Alana nods, then, and presses her lips together. "I'll be right back," she says, and leaves. Hannibal rubs his hands over his face, listening to the floorboards creak as she goes to his home office, to the little cooler where he keeps such medications for emergencies. When she returns, Hannibal will take the shot, and clean himself up, and claw his way back to his former self as best he can.

Then, he will find his mate, and will not leave that bloody place until everything is out in the open between them. When they return here, no matter how long it takes and how much Neutral he must inject, he will have them return here as equals, with nothing but the truth, and all its consequences, strewn behind them like a trail of bodies atop a red sea.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mystery and intrigue are afoot!

If heat feels like a wave, a chasmic void of entropy and fierce warmth that slowly seeps and devours all in its path, taking Neutral is like suddenly being thrown against a brick wall. Ice covers him like he just had a bucket of it dumped over his head, and he gasps as Alana pushes the plunger of the Neutral shot into his arm, feels the icy, cold medication sweep through his veins and into his heart, forcing it to be still like it caught his muscles in a chokehold.

 _Hush_ , it seems to whisper, _it'll be over soon._

Hannibal whines as it takes him, forces him back into clarity like a great cloud of ash has covered the sun and sent the world into winter. His fingers tremble, his heart stutters in his chest, and his eyes snap open and _focus_ , with such a sudden sharpness it momentarily robs him of breath.

Alana pulls the shot free and wipes his arm with an antibacterial wipe. It doesn't bleed, so she places no small bandage or plaster upon it. She caps the shot and sets it on his bedside table, beside a full water glass, which she then takes and hands to him.

He drinks all of it, wincing at the cut of ice against his teeth. Alana gently touches his hand when he gives the empty glass back to her, her fingers warm and curling around his own, sliding up his wrist.

"How are you feeling?" she asks him, and Hannibal is genuinely unsure how to answer. He's ragged, drawn far too thin, shaken like he's gone too long without eating – and he has, the only thing he's had in the last day since dinner with Will is water. He's still so empty, his body feels like a bottle of wine that's been re-corked with only a mouthful left inside it; wasted, wanting, he aches so terribly that for a moment he can barely breathe.

 _Will_. He needs to find Will. Now that he can focus, the reality that Will is missing so thoroughly that even his pack beta doesn't know where he is rises up in him anew, makes him so aware that Will is missing and could be in danger, and just like that, the ice sharpens and solidifies, becomes a single blade of solid intent and focus that he puts everything towards.

"We need to find Will," he says.

Alana nods, her expression unreadable but her eyes bright, and lets him go. She hovers by him, ready to help if he cannot stand on his own, but Hannibal has endured far worse for far less, and Neutral clings to his cells, his nerves, like antidote to venom, like myelin to a sheath, shielding him from feeling too much. He is no longer being devoured, though there is a ticking clock in his head telling him that this strength, this focus, will not last forever.

He rises, and goes to his shower, still naked and so not needing to worry about clothes. He removes his shoes from the bathtub, finds them soaking and peeling at the soles, and sighs, setting them outside on the bathmat, and steps into the shower. He keeps the water cool, knowing he would do well to avoid anything that might speed up his metabolism for the Neutral.

He showers quickly, and uses his scent-deadening body wash and deodorant, toweling himself dry and wrapping the towel around his waist as he emerges back into his bedroom, to find that Alana has stripped the bed and the sheets, as well as the duvet cover which held the ice packs, is in his hamper, along with the suit he was wearing when he went into heat, ready to be cleaned. Around the hamper is a large plastic bag, keeping the scent dull, and the ice packs, warm now and liquid, sit in a pile on one of the chairs at the end of his bed.

The sweatshirt of Will's she provided is folded atop them, and there is an ungraciously large stain of Hannibal's sweat and slick on the mattress. He sighs, inwardly, knowing that it's not even worth trying to clean it until his heat is over with for good, for no matter how much Neutral he takes, it will return. Neutral is like wearing a coat during an ice storm – it will stay the effects for a while, make one even pretend they are warm and comfortable, but the weather will take one eventually if one stays outside.

Alana gives him a fond, tense smile, worry evident in the lines around her mouth and eyes, her creased brow, her wringing hands. Hannibal goes to his wardrobe and fishes out clothes for himself, dressing quickly, and wraps Will's sweatshirt in the towel, placing it atop the hamper for it all to be cleaned at a later time.

He shrugs on a suit jacket, and wonders if he will ruin this one as well; if he'll make it back before his heat strikes again.

"You're looking more like yourself," Alana murmurs gently. She has never seen Hannibal in heat before – it must have been quite jarring, like the first time a child sees their parents get sick and knows how terrible it must be.

Hannibal manages a smile. "Thanks to you," he replies, for he believes in giving credit where it's due, and she has performed wonderfully the last day and a half. He holds a hand out to her, and she takes it, letting him draw her into a tight embrace. He puts his nose to her hair, hugging her tightly, and breathes in, letting her soft, floral scent calm him somewhat. She hugs him back just as tightly, kneading restlessly at the small of his back in a vague attempt to ease his cramping muscles.

He sighs, and cups her face, resting their foreheads together. "Thank you for what you did," he says quietly. She presses her lips together. "You handled Randall far better than I could have, in that state."

"I wasn't going to let him hurt you," she replies fiercely, and Hannibal smiles. "For all I knew he was going to try to -."

She doesn't say it, and Hannibal would like to think Will wouldn't trust that kind of man, but things are different when heat is involved. Omegas know that better than anyone. The fact that, technically, it was within Randall's rights to come to him, and that Hannibal's body might not have been so picky, would have mattered less, and he's supremely glad that Alana was here to act as a barrier between what was and what could have been.

He sighs, and kisses her forehead, before he pulls away and leaves the room. She lingers only long enough to open the windows, and then follows him downstairs. He's starving, and so goes to his kitchen and pulls out a bottle of juice and finishes the loaf of bread, merely eating slices of it bare, preferring speed and efficiency over aesthetic.

"Have we received any updates?" Hannibal asks her when his mouth is free.

Alana sighs, and shakes her head. "I made sure Randall left, saw him leaving with Sutcliffe, but they haven't come back yet and no one's called me," she replies. Hannibal nods, and frowns, patting down his pockets.

He sighs. He had his phone in the last suit, the one that ended up taking a bath with him. It's unlikely that the device is still going to be working. She seems to realize this at the same time he does, and disappears upstairs to retrieve his phone. She comes back with it, trying to turn it on, and grunts in displeasure when the screen remains black. "We could try the rice trick?"

Hannibal nods, and gathers a Ziplock bag, filling it with dry rice, and they place the phone inside it. Still, even if it does work, it will take some time before it recovers. Hannibal is essentially blind, forcibly removed from the loop, and if Alana's phone doesn't receive any correspondence, they are both ships without a lighthouse, with no stars, blindly sailing onwards.

"You only had the one shot," Alana says. "I'll need to get more."

He nods absently. "There are some more shots in my main office," he tells her, and she presses her lips together, sighing through her nose. "We have some time, but I trust you'll be able to get some more should we need it."

"Do you think we will?"

"I sincerely hope not," he says.

She swallows, and looks down at her hands, her expression tight and her face pale. She looks so much older than her years, in that moment, when she lifts her eyes to meet his again. "Tell me what happened," she says, and it sounds like she's pleading.

Hannibal lifts his eyes, and drinks more juice, glad that his hands have stopped shaking with the introduction to food and sugar. "I was having dinner," he says. "I could feel that my heat was just on the precipice, that I would soon succumb to it, when Will came to me." She nods, and leans on the kitchen island, makes a soft sound of encouragement. "He said he would need a Voice, to be able to compel Lass' Alpha generals into obedience. He asked to bite me, and I consented."

Her eyes drop to his neck, which throbs dully, as though the mention of it reminded it of the bite's existence. He winces, and resists the urge to touch the lingering teeth marks. "The action sent me into heat, as we both knew it would. Then, Will left. I tried to get him to stay, but he refused. He promised me that he would return, but he hasn't yet."

"He put you in heat and then _left_?" she says, half outraged, half surprised. Hannibal understands – society makes it no secret than an Omega's heat scent is supposed to be the most powerful pheromone play known to humankind. No Alpha, especially one mated to that Omega, should be able to resist.

Hannibal nods.

She lets out a noise, disgruntled and low. "Well, he's a determined son of a bitch, I'll give him that," she says darkly, and Hannibal smiles, and takes another drink. "Do you think he knew where Lass was?"

"I find it impossible to assume otherwise," Hannibal replies. "Will is a fisherman, Alana, and the most patient man I know when it comes to his hunts. He waited until I was in no state to refuse him, and then made sure I was unable to chase him, so that he could do whatever it was he intended on his own."

Alana frowns, a shadow passing over her eyes. "How could he have known?" she whispers. "I was there, I saw his reaction at the observatory, heard his intel. Chris and Randall don't know where he is, no one knows where he is, which means…"

Hannibal tilts his head.

"Six months is a long time, Hannibal," she says, and meets his eyes. Adds, very quietly; "Do you think you were the only person to visit him, during that time?"

Hannibal frowns, considering as he takes another drink. Legally, in Chilton's facility, criminal Alphas are forbidden to have contact with members of their pack. It was only through Hannibal's own status and power that he was able to arrange a meeting at all.

But he is not the only person with that kind of status and power, who might wish to speak to Will.

He closes his eyes, and sighs, cursing himself for his foolishness. Of course. "Alana," he says, as calmly as he's able, "would you mind giving Doctor Chilton a call and asking if Will had any other visitors during his time there?"

She nods, and pulls out her phone, dialing in silence. She puts the phone on speaker, and waits for the 'Good afternoon, Doctor Bloom' that comes as a greeting. "Hey, Frederick," she says, and makes her voice high and sweet. Hannibal blinks at her, laughing to himself at her flirtatious tone. "How are you?"

"Better for speaking to you," Chilton replies, matching her voice. She rolls her eyes and gives Hannibal a lopsided grin. "How can I help you?"

"I was just wondering if you'd mind doing me a favor, I'd _really_ owe you one," Alana says, straightening up and twirling a lock of hair around her finger, as if the man can actually see her. Hannibal takes a drink so he doesn't make a sound. "I need to know about the visitation logs of a former resident there. Will Graham?"

Chilton laughs. "What do you want to know?"

"I just wanted to ask if anyone visited him while he was there. I'm trying to help him get back on his feet, since his house was repossessed by the bank, so I was wondering if any of his pack, or his family, visited him, so that I could get in touch with them?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Chilton replies, sounding confused, but somehow smug. "Last I heard he was getting into bed with your pack Alpha, no?"

Hannibal frowns. Of course, Chilton was there when he visited, and may have overheard their conversations, but the presumptuous tone makes him bristle.

Alana shrugs it off, laughing sweetly. "I don't want to bother them," she says, in a suggestive voice. "You know how it is, I'm just stuck running errands while they get all… _refamiliarized_ with each other, if you catch my drift."

Chilton laughs, and Hannibal rolls his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure," he replies. "One moment." Hannibal hears a rustling of paper, and then the click of a keyboard as Chilton pulls up the records. "Well, looks like aside from Hannibal, he only had one other visitor, a month before, and then the day after."

Hannibal blinks.

"Who was it?" Alana asks. "Someone he's related to?"

"…Well," Chilton replies slowly, and he sounds surprised. "I'm terribly sorry; I wasn't in the building that day, otherwise I would have known about it sooner. It looks like a 'Miriam Lass' visited him both times."

Alana frowns, her knuckles going white around the phone.

"How long for?"

"The month-ago visit was just shy of an hour, the second one was even shorter," Chilton tells her. He blows out a breath.

"Is Miriam a relation of Will's?" Alana asks, feigning confusion. There is no explicit reason for her to know exactly who Lass is, in relation to Will.

"She's listed as being his stepsister," Chilton says. "There's a contact phone number, if you'd like it."

"Oh, please! Yes," Alana says, and Hannibal goes to his study, taking one of his notebooks and a pen and returning it to her, placing it in front of her. "Thank you so much, Frederick, you're a real lifesaver. I'll take that number now."

He gives it to her, and she smiles once she reads it back, confirming it's correct. "She only visited him the two times, then?"

"Yes," Chilton confirms. Then, he lets out a growl. "I will have to speak with my staff – Graham had explicit orders from the court to not allow any visitors."

"Well, in this case, it helps me a lot. I appreciate it, Frederick – you let me know if there's anything I can do for you to pay you back." She hangs up before he can reply, and sets her phone down, staring at the phone number.

She lifts her eyes. "I can see if we can ping the phone."

Hannibal nods, absently, barely registering the words. He would be a fool to think that Lass' visits to Will, the day after his own, was any coincidence. He wouldn't put it past Will to make a plan with her, and to simply sit and wait. How he got word back out to her, Hannibal isn't sure, but he thinks Will is more than capable of making friends with the staff, to the point where one of them would be willing to notify Lass of Hannibal's visit.

He snarls, and sets his glass down so he doesn't inadvertently break it. _Stupid_ , he was so stupid to blindly trust Will again. To think he had finally gained the upper hand, only for Will to have been pulling the strings all along.

"Hey," Alana says, drawing his attention again. "I know that look. Don't jump to conclusions."

"What conclusions should I be avoiding?" Hannibal snaps.

"The last time you thought Will betrayed you, this whole bullshit started," she says evenly. "You thought he was in bed with Jack, and yeah, he was, but only so that he could go after who he really wanted to." She rests her hands on the counter and fixes him with a stern, warning look. "He wants Freddie, Hannibal. She's always been the one he wants to get rid of. So…why would he do this? What furthers that goal?"

What indeed? He sighs, rubs a hand over his mouth, and leans against the counter, tilting his head up and staring at the floor which separates the kitchen and Will's nest room. "He wanted Freddie," he says, and ignores the little coil of anger and possessiveness that curls up in his chest, thinking of _his_ Alpha's attention straying anywhere but where it should be. It's just the lingering heat talking, he knows that – Will doesn't want her that way, not the way he wants Hannibal. "He fed Jack information under the promise that he would get her, in the end. We have reason to believe now that Lass and Freddie have an alliance."

Alana nods. "And now Jack's gone. Lass is in charge. Is it so outlandish to think he might make the same arrangement with her?"

Hannibal huffs, folding his arms across his chest. "It's different now," he insists. "Back then, Will's loyalty to me was beyond question." But it wasn't, was it? Hannibal's knife found his belly anyway – Will even said he expected Hannibal to try hurting him again, when he tried to leave. He said he wouldn't let Hannibal bite him twice, trick him twice – maybe he has decided that Lass is the better bet.

And Will had been so angry, to learn Hannibal was trying to decipher his second language, to learn his secrets. Maybe he would gladly suffer bond sickness a second time, to make sure Hannibal could not hurt him again. "And Jack wanted my head, yes, but he was a fair man, he wouldn't break the rules of war just for one victory. Lass is…"

Lass is less predictable. Hannibal doesn't know enough about her, and she doesn't have the same loyalty and history that Will and Jack did. She has no reason to even trust Will, not really, if she suspects Will was the reason her pack Alpha is dead. Which, indirectly, he certainly is.

This is a mess, and Hannibal's head feels too warm.

"We have her phone number," Alana reminds him. "We can trace it. I'll call Sutcliffe and get an update from him and Randall."

Hannibal nods, and she opens her phone again, dialing on speaker. Sutcliffe answers on the third ring. "Where are you?" she asks.

"Pulling up to the house now," Sutcliffe replies. "Randall is with me."

"Good," she says. "Come to the kitchen when you arrive. Hannibal took Neutral, he's safe to be around." She hangs up, and Hannibal sighs, finishing his glass and, for lack of anything else to do, clears his dishes from the table since he didn't get a chance to, and washes his glass and plate in the sink.

By the time he's done, Randall and Sutcliffe have arrived, and enter the kitchen. Sutcliffe still has the mint jelly beneath his nose, and Hannibal notes that Randall has a similar smear across his upper lip. His eyes are less red than before, he's visibly calmer, though he still looks at Hannibal with open suspicion.

"Everyone is on the hunt for him," he tells Hannibal and Alana.

Hannibal nods, and sighs through his nose. "We have recently learned some new information – perhaps, Randall, you can shed some light on it," he says, as Alana takes Sutcliffe to one side, shows him the phone number, and Sutcliffe pulls out his phone to make a call to one of Hannibal's generals to begin the trace.

Randall hums, and lifts his chin.

"We learned that Miriam Lass visited Will twice while he was in prison," Hannibal says. Randall's eyes flash, and his brow creases in a frown. Hannibal will give him credit – if he's pretending to be surprised, he's a skilled actor. "Once, a month before I arranged his release, and once the day after I visited him with my offer of freedom." His head tilts. "Can you think of any reason why this happened?"

"Conjugal visit?" Randall snaps, smirking, and Hannibal's upper lip twitches, showing his teeth. "How would I know? I didn't hear from Will at all while he was on the inside."

Which follows the story Hannibal knows, but there is so much more Hannibal that remains hidden to him. He clenches his jaw, carefully rubs his nail into the corner of his mouth to give himself something to bite so he doesn't snarl in frustration. He doesn't have _time_ for this.

"Hannibal," Sutcliffe says, drawing his attention. He looks worried. "That phone number is being pinged from this location."

Hannibal frowns. "Call it," he commands, and Alana obeys, dialing the number. There is a moment of silence, and then a shrill ring and heavy vibration that sounds like it's resonating through the floorboards. It's coming from Will's room.

Hannibal hurries out of the kitchen and up the stairs, the rest in tow, and bursts into Will's room, finding it much as he expected to – Will's nest, in the particular kind of disorder suitable to such a thing, his suitcase open and sitting in the bottom of the closet, a few of his nicer shirts and slacks hanging, his shoes scattered around. He has a pile in the corner of used laundry, the scent of him and dampness clinging.

The sound of the phone ringing and a sharp vibration is coming from the closet, and Hannibal goes to the suitcase to find the phone that was in the observatory ringing, a number not listed, but recognizable as Alana's sliding across the screen.

He takes the phone and Alana stops the call, so the call screen changes into a notification for a missed call. There are, he notices, other missed calls, and text message notifications. He frowns, and stands, holding the phone.

"This is the phone Freddie used to call us," he says, and meets Alana's eyes, then Randall's, and then Sutcliffe's. They are all wearing varying expressions of worry and concern, and he lets out a snarl of frustration. Back to square one, it seems.

He looks back down at it, and opens the phone – it's an older one that doesn't require a passcode to unlock, since it's just a burner phone. He accesses the missed calls and doesn't see any numbers that he recognizes, though they all have Virginia and Maryland area codes.

Then, he opens the text messages, and his frown deepens. There is only one string of messages from a number he remembers being the one they registered Will's phone with. All of the messages are in Gaeilge, and the oldest one is timestamped for the same night Will bit him and left.

He lifts his eyes, looking to Randall, for Randall is the only person he knows who is as fluent as Will. He clears his throat. "Sutcliffe, Alana, leave us for a moment," he says, and Alana frowns, but obeys, walking with Sutcliffe out of the room so that there is only Randall and Hannibal remaining. Hannibal's hands are shaking, for the room reeks of Will, so starkly that he knows if he were still in heat, he would be on his knees. Even now it takes all of his willpower not to crawl into Will's nest and soak himself in his mate's scent.

"Randall," he murmurs – better late than never to come clean. "I know the language you and Will have been using to speak to each other. I even know, to an extent, what the subject of your discussions were." Randall's eyes darken, and he shows the edges of his teeth. Hannibal steps forward and shows him the phone. "Whatever these messages say, I want you to know that my priority right now is to find and help Will. So I ask you to be honest with me, about what this translates to."

Randall eyes him, but takes the phone, turning it so he can read it. His eyes darken, and thicken with red, and then he blinks, and his knuckles go white around the phone.

"What does it say?" Hannibal asks, on fire with curiosity, needing desperately to know what Will sent to them. For Will must have known, eventually, that they would find this phone if he went missing – either through the means they did, or through someone rooting through his things. It occurs to Hannibal that if he had behaved as any Omega might have, he would have come to this nest, desperate to find his mate. He might have found it himself.

Maybe Will was relying on that. Perhaps he thought Hannibal would come here, and find it. He wasted so much _time_.

Randall clears his throat, and rasps; "He says he went to go find Lass. The first message is for me, telling me not to let you leave the house." Hannibal nods – it would make sense that Will might assume Randall would find the phone. That he would come here, searching for Will, after a day of radio silence. Randall frowns down at the messages. "The next one says there's a fox in the henhouse."

Hannibal tilts his head.

"'Have the lambs stopped screaming', is the next one." Hannibal blinks at him, and Randall meets his eyes. "It's a code, in our pack. One Will and I made up – I was raised on a sheep farm and I told him when we first met about how the lambs would cry when we separated them from their mothers, but they'd eventually go quiet and forget." Hannibal doesn't understand. "I told him that it sounds a lot like Omegas when they're going through bond sickness."

"Is that something you bore witness to often?" Hannibal asks.

Randall shakes his head. "No, but you only need to hear that kind of thing once," he replies, and for a moment, his face goes tight, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant grimace of old discomfort.

So, Will asked Randall if…what? If Hannibal had gone through his heat, and was on the other side? Perhaps Will was waiting for a chance to come home, once the danger had passed and he would not be enslaved by his instincts to go to Hannibal. The thought hurts, but he must admit it's practical.

The other message, however…

"Is there any more?" Hannibal asks.

Randall looks down at the phone again. "The mission went sideways," he translates. "Get him out." That's the last one – it's dated from this morning." Before Hannibal can ask, Randall snarls, and calls the text number. Hannibal hears it go straight to voicemail. " _Fuck_!"

"Something went wrong," Hannibal whispers.

Randall nods, and lets out another curse. "I don't know what the fuck he wants me to do," he snaps, and then looks at Hannibal. "But he told me, if anything ever happened to him, I was meant to take care of you. If something went wrong, he said to get you out. He texted the phone that, too. We need to leave, and we need to leave right now."

Hannibal shakes his head. "No."

"Damn it, Hannibal!" Randall snarls. "Whatever Will was planning, something went wrong."

"Or he just wants us to think that," Hannibal replies. "He wants me somewhere I cannot defend as easily, somewhere unfamiliar to me. I will not be chased out of my own home."

Randall's upper lip curls back, and he throws the phone into Will's nest. "You're a stupid, stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?" he hisses, and runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. How much Neutral do you have here?"

"I only had the one shot, but Alana can fetch more."

Randall nods absently, pressing his lips together. He eyes Hannibal. "Do you trust her?"

"With my life."

"Will's messages said there's a fox in the henhouse. Maybe you shouldn't."

Hannibal sighs through his nose, and shakes his head again. "If I cannot trust Alana, then I can trust no one," he replies. He doesn't know why Will would send such a warning – if it is, even, in regards to him. Perhaps he sent it to inform one of them that he had made contact with Lass, that he is the fox in the henhouse. "But if it makes you feel better, we can send her with Sutcliffe, or with one of Will's men, to make sure she doesn't do anything out of character."

Randall nods, once, sharply. "I'll call Chris," he says, and Hannibal acquiesces with a gracious nod. "We need to keep you on lockdown."

"Do you expect an attack on this house?" Hannibal asks. He would rather go find Will, but still, they have no idea where Will is. Hannibal will not be chased out, but he cannot stand by and let himself fall under siege either. It would be just like the stories, an Omega trapped in an ivory tower waiting for his white knight to come along.

"I don't know," Randall says. "I know your pack guard this street, but they are small. Lass has numbers, Freddie has numbers. If they both came for you at the same time – fuck's sake, Hannibal, realistically there's only your guards and what I can summon at a moment's notice, and…" He shakes his head again, running both hands through his hair.

He breathes out, closes his eyes, and swallows harshly. When he straightens, his shoulders fall, and he looks like the man who has assumed the mantle of one who knows he is about to be sent to his death. "You're Will's mate," he murmurs, and Hannibal tilts his head, warmed by the declaration. "I'd be a fool to pretend it's not so. That means you're in charge in his absence. So, what would you have me do?"

"First, I would have you tell me if there's anything else in that phone that might help us find Will."

Randall sighs, and shakes his head. "I read you all the messages he sent," he replies.

"Alright," Hannibal says, and nods to himself. "Next, I would have you tell me if you can think of anywhere Lass might be keeping Will – any information, however deeply buried, that would point you to where you think he might have gone."

Randall presses his lips together, sighing through his nose. "Jack worked mostly out of Quantico," he says. "He had a house near there, but to my knowledge he didn't stay there after Bella died. I don't think they would have abandoned it as a headquarters, though."

Hannibal nods. "Then we will go there, first," he says, and leaves the room, Randall hot on his heels. He finds Alana and Sutcliffe down in the kitchen. "Sutcliffe, go with Alana to my office, to gather more Neutral shots, and bring them back here. Then, summon all my guards, and any of Will's. Guard this house as if I am still inside it."

Sutcliffe frowns at him. "Where will you be?"

"I'm going to find Will," Hannibal replies.

"Hannibal," Alana says sharply, her voice thick with worry. "You can't possibly -."

"This is not up for discussion," Hannibal says. "I will be taking Randall with me. I'm sure he's more than capable of protecting me," he adds with a smile.

"I should go with you as well," Sutcliffe argues.

Hannibal regards him for a moment, and then shakes his head. "No, you will go with Alana," he replies. "Summon everyone you can – if Miriam or Freddie have taken Will, I will consider this an act of war. If anyone approaches who cannot prove they are part of Will's pack, detain them if you can. If not, kill them on sight."

Sutcliffe blinks at him, but nods, clearly unhappy with the situation. He has been a steadfast and loyal member of Hannibal's pack for a very long time, and Hannibal is sure everything that makes him head officer and an Alpha balks at the idea of leaving Hannibal so lacking in protection. But he will obey, because if Alphas are good at anything, it's following orders.

"Everyone is to keep their phones ready," Hannibal says. "Mine is not currently in order, so if you need to reach me, you will call Randall. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Sutcliffe says, and Alana echoes it. She stills looks worried, and deeply unhappy. They are so quick to forget that Hannibal is a skilled and capable fighter as well. He has killed for the sport of it, hunted his own kind for longer than most of them have been able to speak. They will remember that, by the end.

"Good," Hannibal says, and turns to Randall. He gestures to the front door with a smile. "Shall we?"

Randall nods, with one last appraising look to Alana and Sutcliffe, and leads the way out.


	11. Chapter 11

Since he is still certainly in no condition to drive, and he cannot guarantee that they will find Will before he loses himself to his heat again, Hannibal allows Randall to drive down South, turning down the West side of the beltway, into Virginia. To his right, the sprawl of D.C. stretches out, grey and muted, the air thick with a rare cloud of fog, through which the sunlight barely penetrates.

He knows, objectively, that it's quite warm outside. Still, he shivers, and pulls his coat tighter around himself, too aware of Randall's scent in the car, the normally inoffensive and light cling of hay and cotton, that now just reminds him too starkly of the absence of Will.

Randall breathes out, after a long, long silence. He's not the type of man to listen to the radio, apparently. "So what's your game plan here?" he asks.

Hannibal's head tilts, his eyes on the cars in front of them, lighting the way with their staccato Morse code of break lights and turn signals. There are so many, for the morning is young enough to still be called rush hour, and people are going about their business without a care in the world.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hannibal admits. Randall gave him his phone, so they wouldn't have to search for it should it ring, or risk Randall being distracted while he drove, and it sits in Hannibal's hands. He looks down at it, absently pressing on the home button, curious what Randall would have as his lock screen. There's a picture of an older man and woman, embracing each other in a side hug and smiling at the camera. The man has Randall's eyes and the same color to his hair, though it's much longer. The woman has Randall's jaw, his nose, the same angle to his smile.

Randall lets out a low, unhappy sound at that. "Would you care to hear my ideas, then?" he asks slowly, and Hannibal nods, shifting in his seat, and lets the phone go black again. "When we get to Crawford's old house, you'll stay in the car while I scope the place out. If it's clear, we can go inside and see what we can find. If it's not safe, you get the Hell outta dodge and leave me there."

Hannibal smiles. "Are you so eager to sacrifice yourself for your Alpha's mate?" he asks, more curious and amused than anything else. It is so delightfully white knight – the exact kind of man Will would have as his beta. Will, and by extension, all of his pack, are fiercely loyal creatures, to the last.

He thinks of Will's warning, of there being a fox in the henhouse, and his smile fades.

Randall huffs. "I can handle myself," he replies. "But I'm not risking you getting caught and going into heat when someone could…" He doesn't say it. Hannibal knows.

He clears his throat. "I appreciate the sentiment, Randall, but I must insist on going in with you." Randall growls, a short and quiet sound – not to threaten, but to voice his displeasure. The sound of it makes the bite on Hannibal's neck throb sharply. "It seems all of you have forgotten that I am also perfectly capable of handling myself."

Randall's expression doesn't change. He sighs. "Can I ask you something?" Hannibal makes a soft sound of encouragement, turning his head to look at the Alpha's profile. Randall's teeth are lined up on their edges, almost bared, his fingers flexing nervously on the steering wheel. "Will told me that the reason you got him out was so that you could bring our packs back together, to stop anyone getting it into their heads that we were vulnerable without Will's leadership, and our alliance." Hannibal nods. "He told me you told him that his people were in the wind, scattering. That's not true."

Randall looks at him, briefly, for he cannot take his eyes off the road for too long. "You know that's not true. We weren't going to just dissolve. You must have known that."

Hannibal presses his lips together, considering that. "If I'm being honest," he begins, "I didn't know what was happening with your pack. I will say this – Will has trained all of you to disappear without a trace, when it suits." Randall's lips quirk in a smile. "A talent he apparently has in spades. You are right – I didn't know if you would all leave each other, and scatter in the wind, but I also knew that if it was even a possibility, Will would be more inclined to help me. I need your numbers."

Randall lifts his chin. "Was your plan always going to be to use him for his pack?" he asks, his voice purposely flat, giving nothing away, though his eyes are dark and tinged sharply with red. He's trying not to let his emotions get the better of him, but Randall, like his Alpha, is a passionate creature, and an incredibly faithful one. "You didn't need him, for that. The law would have been on your side, if you'd come to me."

Hannibal's head tilts. "That's a curious thing to say," he murmurs.

"It's true, though," Randall replies evenly. "I would have been honor bound to help you, because of Will."

"I think we both know the answer to the question you're skirting so carefully," Hannibal says with a smile. "I freed Will because I wanted to free him. Because, despite what you may think, I care for him deeply. The thought of him rotting away in Chilton's facility caused me no end of discomfort."

"I'm sure being in there wasn't pleasant for him either," Randall says darkly. "Not even touching on all the shit that landed him there. You tried to kill him."

"And in the end, I could not."

"Why?"

Hannibal sighs. "You know why."

"Wouldn't kill you to say it once in a while."

Hannibal smiles, and sighs again, putting his gaze forward on the spread of cars in front of them. "I have learned much in the past few days, since Will returned to us," he says quietly. "There are so many things I simply took as unnecessary to say, that would have benefited us both greatly, had we said them." He sighs again. "But that's between Will and me, Randall."

Randall huffs, but manages a small smile. "Right," he says. Then he breathes out again, knuckles whitening on the wheel, the car lurching as he pushes on the brakes, a large truck cutting in front of them and brake lights glaring.

"I don't know what we're going to find in that house," he adds, after another moment. "My bets are on nothing, just as we haven't been able to get a single foot forward in this whole Goddamn mess." He shakes his head. "I don't know what the fuck Will thinks he's playing at."

Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile. "And here I thought your faith in Will was unshakeable."

"It is," Randall replies sharply, as though offended that his loyalty would be called into question. "Still, six months in almost complete isolation changes a man, especially one as smart and self-aware as Will. He might have…made decisions that mean he's even harder to anticipate than normal." He swallows, clears his throat. "I find the idea uncomfortable."

"We are the same, in that regard," Hannibal says with a nod. "Though I have always found his unpredictability delightful, it certainly doesn't help us now."

Randall huffs. "Understatement." He turns off the 395, onto the I-95 South, merging into the highway, the Express lanes sitting between their direction and the opposite traffic. Eventually, it will melt into a road with a heavy amount of foresting on either side, the lanes going the other way separated by a wide verge. The speed limit will not rise significantly until they are almost at Quantico, but already people are revving their engines and gaining speed, now that they are no longer stuck in the gridlock of D.C. commuter traffic.

There is silence, for another long while, and then Randall sighs. "What do you think happened?"

And isn't that the million-dollar question? Hannibal presses his lips together, trying, as Alana advised, not to jump to the conclusions that make a sharp coil of anger and betrayal curl up in his belly, gnawing at his spine and the back of his neck.

"I think Will needed a Voice, and he waited until I was unable to refuse him, to take it," he says. Randall's nostrils flare, his eyes dart to the bruising edge of the bite on Hannibal's neck, and he nods. "I think he then went to Miriam, having already known her location from the start. I think he made plans to wait until I was indisposed, and then intended to go to her, posed as an ally, to get close enough to strike."

Randall hums. "You don't sound sure about that."

"The fact of the matter is, as easily as he could have convinced her to trust him, he could have easily done the same with me," Hannibal says. "Even as we speak, he could be attempting to lure us into a trap."

"That theory relies on us doing exactly what he wants, with no actual instructions," Randall argues.

"Yes, it does," Hannibal says, nodding. "But it's not entirely unjustified – he knew I was in heat, and therefore would be driven by instinct to find him. He knew you would come to me, if he went dark on you. He knew you would know about Crawford's home, and that I would insist on coming with you, if you remembered."

"Do you think he knows you that well?"

"Will is one of the most brilliant and observant men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing," Hannibal replies lightly, unable to stop himself smiling, for he feels the truth, with a fond pulse of warmth, when he says it. "I underestimated him once, and while you could argue I benefited from the fallout far better than he did, his motivations and true intentions remained a mystery to me, until he told me." He swallows, and looks down at Randall's phone again. "I think it would be a mistake to underestimate him a second time."

Randall doesn't say anything in response to that. They drive on, only the revving of the engine and the rush of passing cars breaking the silence.

 

 

They reach the turnoff for Quantico, and Randall exits the highway, turning away from the sharp, jutting grey spear of the building, and into the neighboring town of Triangle. Jack Crawford's house is a place Hannibal has never been to, and so he peers curiously at their surroundings as Randall drives on. His house sits in the middle of a cul-de-sac, each house broad-faced and painted a pristine white. The lawn is immaculately kept, every house dark and lacking cars in front, as every resident is undoubtedly at their jobs, going about their daily business. Will fetched his car from his home on the second day, so he could come and go and tend to his dogs without robbing Hannibal of a vehicle, and Hannibal is almost disappointed when he does not see any sign of Will's car on the street.

Randall parks in front of one of the houses, killing the engine, and leans across the console to peer at the house. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn, and the mailbox is stuffed to bursting. He presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose. "Looks empty," he says.

Hannibal nods, and gets out of the car without a word. He breathes in deeply, every instinct in him fine-tuned to try and catch the scent of his mate. He thinks he might, barely, be able to scent Will in the air, but truthfully he cannot tell, for it lacks any distinction that would erase any doubt from his mind. There is the scent of Alpha, of mown grass, of that particular humidity from recent rain that colors the rooves a darker slate and makes the grass shine, but he could not say with any certainty that Will has been here.

There is another scent, however, of a female. A rich, earthy scent that reminds him of gunpowder, of paper and ink, of lofty halls filled with dusty books. The kind of scent that lingers in old libraries and hallowed places of learning. He looks to Randall, and sees him breathe in as well.

"That's Miriam," he says without prompting, and Hannibal nods. He doesn't recall smelling her at the observatory – of course, that makes sense, if she was, in fact, never there.

Then, Randall frowns, and lifts his chin, lips parted to drag the air over his scenting palette at the roof of his mouth. "I smell Chris," he says, and looks around. He nods to a small black car parked on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac, quite out of place with its chipped paint job and tires that are just a little flat. "That's his car."

Hannibal's head tilts. "Can you think of a reason why it would be here?"

Randall's eyes are black, and he shakes his head. Chris was the one, Hannibal recalls, who led them to the observatory in the first place. Chris was the one Sutcliffe overhead speaking with Randall, and from whom he was able to identify the foreign language they spoke as Gaeilge. And now, Chris' car is here, at the home of Will's former ally, and Hannibal's enemy.

He presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose, turning his eyes back to the house. He walks up onto the pavement, careful to look out for any potential traps, alarms, or pitfalls. He can see nothing of the sort, but would be a fool to let that put him at ease.

He approaches the house, Randall close behind, and as he gets closer, the scent of Will sharpens, becomes undeniable. It causes a heavy clench in his belly, his fingers curling, his mouth flooded with saliva – his mate is here. Will is _here_.

Or at least he was recently. Hannibal strides up to the door and tests the handle. It's locked, and his lips purse. He forces himself to think about this as another hunt – normally, he would monitor the habits of his prey, watch their comings and goings. Memorize the alarm code, if they had one, though he much prefers to attack while they're on the move.

Randall huffs, and looks around behind him, before he circles the house to the side door. They test that one, pulling the screen door open without trouble, and the inner door is unlocked. It opens with a soft creak, and Randall's breath catches as warm air seeps out to them, richly colored with Will's and Miriam's scent.

"He's here," Hannibal breathes, so certain. Randall presses his lips together, wets them, and leads the way inside. The innards of Jack Crawford's house are much how Hannibal pictured them – plainly decorated, a few soft features to remember his wife. There are paintings of flowers and bright splashes of color, the walls white, the floorboards of the kitchen a dark, gleaming laminate wood. The kitchen is almost as clean as his own, hinting that it is not well-used, for it is clean in the way a new home on display for a potential buyer is.

He walks through the kitchen, and into a room that was once the living room, complete with corduroy beige couches, a shelf of books and knickknacks, a television set greyed out and covered in dust. The carpet is thick beneath his shoes, plush enough to sink into. The foyer has the same dark wood as the kitchen, the glass in the door creating a bright geometric design, in the center of which is a single purple flower.

There are stairs leading up, also carpeted, and an open door through which he sees the end of a dining table. There is a door beneath the stairs, where houses like this have entrances to basements. He goes to that door, and finds it padlocked, a heavy bolt sitting across the top of it. Double locked – either no one goes in here, or they are trying very hard to keep people out. Or someone inside.

Randall shifts his weight, looking up. "I'm gonna do a quick sweep," he says, and Hannibal nods, absently mourning the fact that they did not bring any weapons or tools that would help them open the door. While Randall goes upstairs, silent and prowling, Hannibal returns to the kitchen, searching through the drawers in the hopes of finding a screwdriver or other small implement that would help him negotiate the locks on the basement door.

As he nears the center of the kitchen, he pauses, hearing a heavy creak of a floorboard beneath his weight. Of course, this house is on the older side, and will groan and move with the people within it, but that is not what causes him to go still.

He hears, so quietly he could have almost convinced himself he imagined it, a soft snarl. There is an air vent tucked beneath one of the cabinets that he's sure, from his understanding of how American houses are built, feeds down to the basement to allow circulation and ventilation there. He looks to the vent, steps on the floorboard again, and again, the snarl comes.

Then, quite loudly and suddenly, the door leading to the basement shudders as a heavy weight is slammed against it. Hannibal tenses, looking up, able to hear the sound of someone scrabbling desperately at the other side of the door.

He goes to it, presses his hand to the seam, his nose to the little gap of air between door and frame, and breathes in.

" _Will_."

The clawing sound stops, and then there is a deep, heavy sigh, so thick with relief Hannibal feels it in his own chest. "Hannibal." It's Will's voice – shaken, raw, like he's been howling for days. Hannibal cannot speak – his throat is suddenly so dry, a hard knot of relief and yearning curled up behind his larynx. He can only shiver, and curl his fingers against the door. "Hannibal," Will says again, in his silence.

"It's me, Will, I'm here."

He slides the bolt free, but there is still the issue of the padlock, and he can hear Randall coming back down the stairs. He looks up, as the Alpha rounds the bottom of the banister. "He's in here," he says, and Randall's eyes flash, his face momentarily twisting into a vicious, ugly-looking snarl. He nods, and disappears through the kitchen to find something to use. "Randall is here with me, Will – we're going to get you out."

Will is quiet, for a moment, and then he slams his fist on the door. "Randall!" he yells, and Hannibal sees the other Alpha pause, looking towards the door. Will's next words, when they come, are in that second language, so fast and rushed that Hannibal cannot translate them. But he doesn't need to know what Will is saying to get the sentiment.

Randall's eyes snap to the front door. "He says Miriam is watching the house," he murmurs. "She knows we're here."

"Let her come," Hannibal snarls. It's not the first time he has been caught unawares, and not the first time he has had to improvise. Randall shakes his head, shoulders rolling, and Hannibal turns from the door with another impatient noise, going to the kitchen, and finally finds a screwdriver that will suit in unscrewing the padlock attachments from the door.

"We have to go," Randall says insistently, following him to the door. "We're gonna be outnumbered, we're not ready for -."

"If you want to leave, then leave," Hannibal replies coolly, fitting the head of the screwdriver to the first screw. He forces his hands to remain steady, and does not rush himself, as he slowly untwists the first one and lets it drop. "I'm not abandoning him again."

"Hannibal," Will growls from the other side of the door. "Get the fuck out of here."

Hannibal shakes his head, though Will cannot see him, and continues with his task. Randall growls, and paces to the front of the living room, peering out through the curtains and keeping watch as Hannibal continues to work. After a moment, he rushes to the back door, and locks it, which will buy them some time should someone try to sneak in the back way as they did.

It was foolish – of course she was watching the house. Of course she'd know they would suspect Jack's house as a location to hold Will. When did Hannibal become so Goddamn predictable?

He unscrews another screw, and it drops with a clatter to the floor. Now that he knows it's Will on the other side, he feels as if he is becoming more aware of him by the second – Will's scent clouds his vision, making it difficult to see. He makes Hannibal's hands shake, so it's a chore to keep the screwdriver steady as he tries to free him. He can hear Will panting, like he's trying to soak himself in Hannibal's scent as well, feel the creak of the door as Will leans full-body against it.

"Hannibal," he says again, a weak whisper; "You have to leave."

"I'm not leaving here without you," Hannibal replies, sharp and clipped.

Will snarls, and the door shivers as he slams his fist against it. "You Goddamn stupid, stubborn son of a bitch. Why can't you just do what I say for once in your life?"

Hannibal's lips twitch in an unhappy smile. "I thought you didn't want to compel me to do anything."

Will goes silent at that, and Randall lets out a warning sound. "A car just pulled up," he reports, the stench of his anxiety permeating the air. "I see Lass. And…" He snarls, loudly enough Hannibal looks over his shoulder at him, sees Randall's eyes thick with red, his upper lip curled back. "Chris is with her. What the _fuck_."

"It appears your pack is not quite as united as you thought," Hannibal says mildly, to both Randall and Will.

Will huffs. "Don't be so cocky. Sutcliffe was here more than once – I smelled him. I heard his voice."

Hannibal frowns, but there is no time to delay. He undoes another screw, and there is only one left. Impatient, he drops the screwdriver and yanks on the padlock, feeling a sharp satisfaction when the wood around the remaining screw creaks, and combined with Will's weight, it gives, and the door opens. Will stumbles out of it, catching himself on the opposite wall.

He looks a mess, to put it politely. His eyes are black underneath, his nose a little more crooked than normal and his upper lip caked with old blood, like his nose was broken. He has bruises and claw marks around his neck and wrists, and his hair is flat and greasy, his clothes sticking to him with dirt and sweat.

His eyes are as red as Hannibal has ever seen them, outside of rut. He's wearing the same clothes he left in, his knuckles split and reddened from trying to claw his way out of the basement, as well as any other scuffles Lass and her people had to engage in to overpower him. There's a split in his lower lip from a punch, and another bruise spread wide across his cheek and jaw.

At first, Hannibal is shocked at the sight of him. But that swiftly gives way to a black outrage, seeing his mate so terribly beaten.

Still, despite his injuries, Will straightens, and stands tall. His eyes darken when he sees Hannibal, nostrils flaring wide as he takes in his scent, his fingers curling like, even now, it's taking all his strength not to lunge for Hannibal, to pull him close and mark him with teeth and nails. Hannibal is sure, even with Neutral, his heat scent is detectable.

"Will," he breathes, so relieved to see him. He reaches out to touch Will's face, but Will grimaces and turns away from him, his eyes sliding to the door.

"Is it just Lass and Chris?" he asks Randall.

Randall nods, and lets the curtain fall back into place. His demeanor is changing, now that he knows Will is relatively safe, though his eyes hold the same black rage at seeing Will in this state. Will snarls, and spits at his feet. "Fuckin' snake. Should have known he went to her side after the whole stint with the observatory."

"And Sutcliffe?" Hannibal asks.

Randall hisses. "We don't have _time_ for this."

"Will," Hannibal says, and touches Will's shoulder. "Sutcliffe is with Alana. If there's something I need to know, that _she_ needs to know, I would have you tell me."

Will's eyes flash, and widen, and he lets out a curse, running his hand through his hair, wincing when the motion pulls on his injured fingers and bruised face. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses, and breathes in shakily. Breathes out again. "Goddamn it – I can't -. Hannibal, get the fuck away from me; I can't think when you're here."

Hannibal steps back, though he cannot bear to go farther away from Will. Outside, he hears the slam of car doors. Footsteps, approaching the front, and a shadow darkening the entryway until the flower is obscured.

"Will," he says, and Will snarls at him again, shakes his head. His eyes dart between their feet, Hannibal can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. His eyes lift, and he doesn't look…not quite helpless, but torn with indecision. And Hannibal thinks he might know why. "Will, you have my trust, and my obedience. You're the Alpha, you're in charge."

Will blinks at him, his lips parting.

"Tell me what you would have me do."

For a moment, Will merely stares at him. He wets his lips, wincing at the sting of his tongue across the welt on his lower one. His fingers curl, and his exhale is shaky. "You trust me?" he asks, and Hannibal wants to know how he can ask that. But of course, he knows – the last time tensions were this high, Hannibal put a knife in his belly and a death sentence on his head.

He nods. Now is not the time for words, but for action.

Will's eyes darken, fall to his neck, and he nods as well, his shoulders straightening. "Randall," he says, and looks to his beta. "Make yourself scarce and wait for my signal. We're cutting off the head of the snake once and for all." Randall nods, and after a moment of appraisal, slides past Will and Hannibal, and tucks himself into the little side room that leads to the back door.

Hannibal watches him go, and then suddenly Will has his fists in Hannibal's coat, and slams him against the hallway. He gasps, heart shivering and mouth flooded with saliva, instinctively wanting both to fight back, because Will is a threat, and bare his neck, because Will is his mate. Will snarls, loudly, and Hannibal winces as he wraps a hand in Hannibal's hair, yanks his head to one side, and sinks his teeth deeply into Hannibal's neck, reopening the bite mark on his throat. With Neutral, Hannibal cannot be flung back into heat quite so suddenly or easily, but it's a close thing, as Hannibal's muscles turn liquid under Will's heat, and he can see the tidal wave rising on the horizon again.

"Play along and don’t do anything stupid," Will whispers, nuzzling his ear. He is given one small kindness; Will's lips, brushing feather-light and sweet along his jaw, before Will's hand flattens tightly over his throat, and Will steps back, holding him at arm's length.

The door opens, and Will grins, his eyes on Hannibal.

"You're just in time," he purrs, and looks over to Miriam Lass as she freezes in the doorway. She's younger than Hannibal expected, with glacially-bright eyes, dark beneath from many sleepless nights, her face sallow-looking, skin pale, dirty blonde hair pulled up into a tight ponytail and wearing a pantsuit Hannibal thinks appropriate for the kind of person who would follow a man like Jack. "I have a present for you."

Miriam blinks, and her head tilts. Behind her is a tall Alpha, blond and long-limbed, the kind of man that would fit in well on the cover of a magazine for all his plastic prettiness. He must be Chris. He grins wide enough to split his face in half, and claps a hand on Miriam's shoulder.

"What did I tell you?" he crows in delight. "Got him strung along like a dog on a leash. Came runnin' just like he said he would."

Hannibal swallows, his throat aching terribly, and Will's hand tightens around his neck, thumb pressing down – almost a caress, but it feels more like a warning. Will's smile is awful, that fake thing that showed its teeth to him from behind the glass wall of his cell, cruel and mean and savage.

Miriam's lips thin out, and her eyes alight on Hannibal. She and Chris step inside, and she takes off her coat. "Well," she says primly. "Hello, Hannibal."

Hannibal clears his throat. "Miss Lass," he says, wincing at the tug of ripped skin and muscle beneath Will's hand. Will's thumb touches the edge of it, almost in apology, but his expression doesn't change.

"We all have a lot of catching up to do," Will purrs. "But I think by now you realize I'm a man of my word."

Miriam looks at him, a somewhat guilty expression passing over her face. "Yes, I suppose we needn't have been so rough with you," she admits. Will merely smiles at her, and how can she not see the feral, pacing, angry thing that sits in his eyes? It seems to obvious to Hannibal. "But you kept your end of the bargain."

She reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a set of keys. "There's enough cash in the car to get you anywhere you want to go, a passport if you want to use it, and it has a full tank." Will smiles, and lets Hannibal go, taking the keys.

"Thank you," he purrs, and he looks at Hannibal for another long moment. Hannibal cannot read what Will is trying to say – perhaps he is saying nothing at all. "Randall, let's go!"

Hannibal blinks, and Randall emerges from behind the door to the back, grinning and clapping his hand against Chris' forearm in greeting. "Hey, man," he says lightly, no longer the jittery, anxious thing he'd been mere moments before. "Just so you guys know, Lecter here's due to go back into heat sometime soon. If you wanted to have some fun."

Hannibal's stomach rolls with revulsion, and Chris laughs. "No offense to you, Alpha, but he ain't my type."

"I doubt he'll live long enough to be enjoyed anyway," Miriam says primly, dusting herself off. "Once we have our confession…" She doesn't finish the sentence.

Hannibal stares at Will. His face hasn't changed at all – it seems like they are back in the BSHCI, with Will so cold and growling at him, so desperately wanting to harm. He swallows, his fingers curling. Will asked for trust – no, he didn't ask, just wanted to know he had it. He doesn't know -. Will is too damn difficult to read, and maybe that's because the bite on his neck and the scent of Will in his lungs is clouding his judgement, making it so damn difficult to think.

But Will arranged with Lass to have a car and money waiting, and that's a damning sign that he was, somehow, planning this all along. He lured Hannibal here, and now Lass has Hannibal right where she wants him – not incapacitated, but certainly not in his prime, as addled and weakened by heat as he is. And, with Randall and Will leaving, he is outnumbered.

Will's eyes meet his, and Will has blood in his teeth – _Hannibal's_ blood – when he smiles. "Before I go, would you mind if I used your shower?"

Miriam huffs, but smiles. "Sure," she says politely. "Chris, Randall, if you wouldn't mind making our guest comfortable. Freddie will be here soon – she's _very_ interested to hear what he has to say for himself."

Hannibal blinks, and doesn't resist as he's gathered up and forced through the basement door, and hears the bolt being slid back into place as it locks behind him. It is utterly dark on the inside, smells of dampness and Will, and is very cold on his overheated skin. His neck throbs painfully, his knuckles ache from clenching his fingers so tightly.

Still, after a moment, he smiles.

Will wants Freddie. He has always wanted Freddie Lounds. And now, with Hannibal and himself in a place where the women feel they have the upper hand, he may finally get what he wants. All he had to do was throw Hannibal into the line of fire to get it.

"Clever boy," he whispers, and finds the first step, sitting down upon it with a sigh. Since Will bit him, he will likely regain his Alpha Voice sometime soon as well, so he will be able to subdue Chris, and any other Alpha or Omega Freddie or Miriam summon. He will, finally, get the revenge he wants. Hannibal just has to trust in his design, and hope that Will's affection for him will extend once the whole bloody orchestra is complete.

He thinks, absently, as he settles down to wait, that the warmth in his chest feels a lot like pride.


	12. Chapter 12

For a while, Hannibal cannot hear much of anything at all, no matter how hard he tries – the pipes roar as Will showers above him, and makes it impossible to detect anything more enunciated in the murmurings going on behind the other side of the basement door. He can hear Lass, and Randall, and Chris talking, smells nothing beyond the lingering scent of Will within this dark room. He can smell Will's blood, his anger, and manages, once his eyes adjust to the soft, grey not-dark of the room that comes in through a small window set at ground level, shrouded in fog, a few droplets from when Will's nose was first broken.

Strange, he thinks, for clearly there was some kind of fight, even if Will managed to convince Miriam to be patient and wait for Hannibal to come. Again, he curses the fact that he never paid as much attention to Miriam as he did to Jack, so he cannot fathom what Will might have said, what deal they might have struck, for him to earn her trust.

In the back of his skull, a weight sits, a promising coil that is currently caged by Neutral, but will break free, sooner rather than later. He tries not to think about it, and so concentrates on everything he has learned in the last two days, goes over every interaction he shared with Will, with Randall, with Alana, and tries to make sense of it all.

Will's desire to get Hannibal out of the house had seemed genuine, when Hannibal was trying to free him. Whether that was because his plans had gone awry, or he'd had a change of heart and truly did, at first, mean to throw Hannibal to the wolves, Hannibal cannot say.

He's coming into this game too late.

Miriam visited Will while he was in prison, a month before Hannibal did. They spoke for an hour, which is far longer than Hannibal's visit took, and another hour the day after he made his pact with Will. They could have talked about anything, laid out plans and counterplans, attacks and fallbacks and plots far more detailed than 'Wait until Hannibal is in heat and then make a move'.

This Hannibal knows; Freddie would not possibly show herself unless she was sure Hannibal, or Will, or both of them were compromised. If Miriam assured her that Will was on their side, and with Hannibal currently incapacitated, it's the highest guarantee of her safety she would ever get. Freddie's pack and Hannibal's have no public feud beyond Hannibal's previous alliance to Will – it is Will whom Freddie is at war with. It is Freddie whom Will wants to destroy most.

So, Will made a pact with Miriam. He would wait, until Hannibal was unable to fight for himself, and then go to her and tell her that it was time to strike. If Miriam compromised one of Will's men, or Hannibal's, they would be able to get the in, to be able to take him out. Perhaps Randall had interrupted that process. Perhaps Sutcliffe was going to be in charge of getting Hannibal where he needed to be, but Alana intervened.

He doesn't think Randall is capable of betraying Will – no, he is far too loyal, and loves Will far too much to go against him. But if Will's ultimate plan was to lure Hannibal out here, well, he played his part remarkably well. Randall wanted Hannibal out of his house, away from a place he could easily defend and was well-known to him, and they got their wish.

Alana, too, would never go against him. Will said Sutcliffe has been in the house, but then again, so was Chris. They could both be working with Miriam. They could both be working with Miriam under Will's orders – certainly, once she arrived, there seemed to be no bad blood between Chris and Randall and Will. Either all of Will's pack are talented actors, but there are layers to this plot Hannibal cannot yet see.

What it comes down to is Will's thoughts. His motivations, murky and ever-changing though they seem to be. He sighs, and rubs his hands over his face, trying to cling to Alana's reminder that he shouldn't jump to conclusions. But it's easier to be calm and methodical when he doesn't have his mate's bite on his neck and a burgeoning, dreadful promise of heat weighing down his skull.

Around him, the pipes cease rumbling as the shower stops. Hannibal hears a car trundling up the cul-de-sac, and stop close enough to the house that he doesn't think it foolish to assume it's Freddie.

Hannibal still has Randall's phone, he realizes in a sharp moment of clarity. He pulls it out, finding no messages, and lets out a soft huff of frustration when he tries to unlock it and is greeted with the passcode screen. Four numbers, and if he had the time he could try all the combinations, but he doesn't have that kind of time. People tend to pick patterns over words nowadays, but Randall seems like a sentimental kind of man.

Idly, he tries the combination that corresponds with his last name; T-I-E-R. The screen shakes and the phone vibrates its rejection, and tells him he has two more attempts before it locks itself for half an hour. He sighs, and lifts his eyes to the door.

He looks down at the phone, tilts his head, and tries again. This time, he types in W-I-L-L. The phone opens, and Hannibal laughs to himself – no, if one thing is certain, Randall is definitely not the type of man to betray his Alpha.

He opens the messages and finds Alana's phone number saved, pulling up the message chain. It contains nothing of note; address exchanges and Alana telling him she's outside to pick him up, the first time he visited. He calls her.

It takes a while to connect, and Hannibal shifts closer to the door, hoping that the proximity will help with the signal, and then it finally starts to ring. It rings once, twice, a third time, a fourth, and Hannibal is just about to worry when she finally answers, sounding breathless. "Randall?"

"It's me," Hannibal says, as quietly as he can. Then, before she can answer; "Are you alone?"

She pauses, and then he hears her heels clicking, the sound of a door being closed behind her. "I am now," she replies, equally softly. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I have reason to believe Sutcliffe may not be as loyal as we previously thought," he murmurs. He can hear the front door opening, a bright explosion of scent that is incredibly sharp, like opening up a bottle of bleach. His nose wrinkles, and he resists the urge to shy away from the door. "Has he behaved oddly today?"

"No," Alana says, "but I'll keep an eye out. Are you okay?"

"Things…could have gone better," Hannibal admits. "I found Will, locked in Jack Crawford's basement. His friend, Chris, is here, and seems to be in league with Miriam Lass." He pauses, and adds; "And I believe Freddie Lounds just arrived."

"What the _fuck_ ," Alana breathes. Hannibal echoes the sentiment, inwardly. "Shit, I'm still in your office in Baltimore, there's no way I can get there in time."

Hannibal knows this. Just as Will knew he would not have any more Neutral at the house, and would have to send someone there to get more. Will knew Hannibal would send Alana, because he wouldn't trust anyone else as much as her to get the job done.

Was he keeping her out of harm's way, or making sure she couldn't interfere?

He hears footsteps approaching the door, and swallows. "I have to go," he tells Alana. "If something happens to me, I trust you will do what needs to be done."

"I will," she says, her voice shaking. "Just promise me nothing's going to happen to you."

He smiles. "I will certainly try." He hangs up the call and pockets the phone, just as the deadbolt slides open on the basement door, and it opens, revealing Chris. The Alpha grins at him, sharp and wide, and reaches down to haul him up by the collar of his coat.

"This way," he barks out harshly, and Hannibal shudders, instinctively repulsed at the touch of another Alpha so close to his neck. Chris shoves him towards the living room, where Hannibal sees Freddie and Miriam perched on opposite ends of the big white couch, Randall hovering by the windows. He is surprised that he cannot see or smell any of Freddie's entourage with her – clearly she's more than confident in her relative safety.

He has never met Freddie Lounds in person before, and she smiles at him like a shark might grin at a school of fish. "Ah, the infamous Hannibal Lecter, in the flesh!" she crows in delight. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you, Miss Lounds," Hannibal replies with a nod. Chris pushes at him again, directing him to an empty chair that has its back to the door, and Hannibal goes to it, sitting down and making himself as comfortable as he's able. Freddie's bleach-like scent stings his nose, is sharp compared to Lass' papery scent, Randall's, soft like hay, even Chris', who smells enough like Will that Hannibal wonders if they are, perhaps, related.

Another strike against him, for Hannibal would never allow a member of his family to betray him, and it points sharper to the possibility that Chris is, somehow, still working on Will's orders.

 _Will._ Where is Will? He breathes in, trying to detect the Alpha beneath the unwelcome scents and presences in the room. Tries to hear Will moving above their heads, but cannot. His pulse does not quicken, he gives no outward sign of his discomfort and anxiety, but his stomach is tense.

Freddie stands, and walks over to a halt in front of him, her arms folded across her chest and her head tilted sharp enough that her mane of bright orange curls falls over one shoulder. "You're not exactly what I expected," she murmurs, one brow arching in a haughty expression, lips pursed almost in disappointment.

Hannibal lifts his chin. "I apologize."

Her lips twitch again, and she huffs, and turns back to Miriam. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

Miriam nods, and Chris disappears into the kitchen again, returning with a camera – the same camera, Hannibal thinks, that was stationed outside the observatory. The one that Sutcliffe had in his possession.

His upper lip twitches. Another damning sign.

They set the camera up a little way away from him, pointed towards him. Hannibal shifts his weight, his eyes finding Randall. The Alpha is occasionally looking through the curtains – keeping watch, to make sure no one interrupts them, or waiting for something. Hannibal cannot be sure.

Chris takes up a station beside him, on the other side of the curtains.

Miriam clears her throat, drawing Hannibal's attention, and pulls out a cell phone, making a call. "Come inside," she commands once the call is answered. "We have him."

Hannibal frowns, and cranes his head as the front door opens, and no less than a dozen Alphas come inside. He swallows – this is starting to look like a very unfortunate situation. Freddie and Miriam are both petite, and young, and likely untrained in combat enough that Hannibal could get the physical upper hand, providing Randall and Chris stayed out of the way long enough for him to do it. Twelve Alphas against one Omega on the brink of heat is a thoroughly stacked deck – not even Chris and Randall, or Will, could hold their own against so many.

He recognizes, dimly, that they are Jack's pack. A few of the faces are familiar as they come into the room, circling the couch and providing an audience, all of them staring at him with various degrees of open hatred and aggression. The room, suddenly, stinks of Alpha anger, so much that Hannibal swallows and resists the urge to show his throat.

He flexes his fingers on the armrests of the chair, and tries to listen for Will, but cannot hear him. "I thought taping my confession was going to be enough," Hannibal says, as calmly as he can manage.

Miriam gives him an unkind smile. "Some things are meant to be heard in person."

Chris finishes setting up the camera, and Freddie comes forward with a fresh battery, installing it and turning the camera on until the little red link blinks, bright. "Hannibal Lecter," Miriam begins, "it's time to give your confession."

Hannibal huffs. "You will have to be more specific, my dear – I've done a lot of things."

The Alpha nearest him bares his teeth, lets out a violent snarl that crackles through the room, goads the rest of the Alphas into shifting their weight and showing their teeth. Hannibal's stomach roils awfully, tense with anxiety, his heart stutters in his chest at the sound of so many angry voices.

"You killed our pack Alpha, Jack Crawford," Miriam says. "And conspired to kill me, and Freddie Lounds, two other pack leaders. You attempted to kill Will Graham, one of our allies." Hannibal presses his lips together, but forces himself not to flinch at the words. "And bound him to a contract to force him to help you in going after us."

Hannibal's fingers flex again. He cannot see Randall and Chris behind the wall of Alphas. He swallows, and looks to Freddie. "I'm surprised you're here, truthfully, Miss Lounds," he says. "Allowing yourself to come without protection, to a house where Will and his two most trusted generals are."

He can tell Freddie doesn't mean to react, but she blinks, her lips twitching down, and she glares at Lass. "Graham's _here_?" she hisses.

"He was just leaving," Miriam replies sharply. "Don't let Hannibal distract you."

"We should just rip the bitch apart and be done with it," one Alpha growls, the one that first snarled at Hannibal's attempt to buy time. For what, he isn't sure, for Alana doesn't know precisely where he is, and all of his pack are too far away to come to his aid. He cannot possibly delay them for the time it would take for them all to come from Baltimore.

Freddie folds her arms across her chest, clearly unhappy with the situation, and huffs. Hannibal smiles at her. "Miss Lounds, I would honestly advise that you leave. Will may have betrayed me, but you have always been his primary target. Alliance or not, he may not be able to resist the chance to wring your delicate neck."

"Stop stalling," Miriam hisses.

"In fact, I'm surprised at all of you," Hannibal adds, looking around the room. "Will Graham is the one who was arrested for killing your Alpha, not me." For that much is true, on paper, and there is one thing Alphas understand that women do not; "He attacked me unawares, tried to kill me while my mate was gone. Thankfully, Will came home in time, and killed him for the offense."

"That's not true," Miriam says sharply, her pale cheeks coloring in outrage. "It's not true. You killed Jack."

"He's not going to confess," Freddie says. "Let's just kill him and be done with it."

"No!" Miriam shrieks, and whirls on her. "No. I will have him confess."

There is silence, as the women glare at each other, and then a creak of floorboards behind Hannibal's chair. He breathes in, his eyes falling closed, as the scent of Will reaches him. He smells clean, and Hannibal turns in his chair, aching to look at him. Will has washed the blood from his face and mouth, cleaned his knuckles, his hair is dark with water but beginning to grow fluffy as it dries. His clothes, still the dirty ones he came in, sit lanky and heavy on his body.

He smiles at Miriam, and then at Freddie. Then, his eyes slide to Hannibal, and he purrs; "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

Miriam turns to him, and looks more relieved than anything else. Freddie's expression is black, and she is glaring at Will openly. "He won't confess," Miriam says, and she sounds like a child begging to let her father have a cookie before dinner – petulant, weak. And Hannibal understands, suddenly, why there are so many witnesses in this room. She likely could not unite them all under force of will alone, and so brought them together through a mutual hatred of Hannibal; through telling him that he's the one to blame for their Alpha's death, and that she will give them their revenge.

Will's smile is cruel, cold as ice, and he steps forward, into the room. His eyes have a thick ring of red within them, and chill Hannibal to the core. His mind roars at the presence of his mate, desperate to rise and go to Will, to touch Will and cover him in Hannibal's scent so he no longer smells so _clean_.

"He'll confess to me," Will promises, and his fingers drag, feather-light, over the back of Hannibal's chair. Hannibal gasps, panting heavily already, his lungs and his throat aching and dry, thirsty for more of Will's scent, for his touch. His fingers twitch in an aborted attempt to rise, to reach for him. Will moves away before he can. "Won't you, sweetheart?"

Hannibal shakes his head, trying to clear it. His spine tenses, burns, his head is filled with fog. Will pulls an ottoman from in front of the television set, drags it until it's next to the camera, and sits down on it. He braces his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers together, and gives Hannibal a wide, triumphant smile.

Hannibal swallows, his chest turning cold at the look in Will's eyes. Throughout the entire time they have known each other, he has never thought Will capable of hurting him. He would never think Will to be the kind of man to delight in his humiliation, and his suffering. But six months is a long time for someone to change, and this Will smiling at him is not the Will he knew.

He closes his eyes, and Will snarls, forcing him to open them again. "Look at me," he commands, and Hannibal blinks, for he can hear, just on the edges of his voice, that Alpha command, Will's Voice thickening his vocal cords and giving him the power to compel. He meets Will's gaze and sees…

And sees.

 _Trust me_ , Will's eyes seem to say, even as his mouth twists in an unhappy snarl and he shows his teeth. "Confess, Hannibal," he whispers. "I refuse to give you any more of my time."

Behind him, some of the Alphas laugh.

Hannibal wets his lips. "Will, please," he says. _Play along_.

Will stands, suddenly, with a growl. "You're so fucking _proud_ ," he says, sharp as a whiplash, making Hannibal's head sting. "You thought you were smarter than me, that you had more control over me than I did over you? You're smart, I'll give you that, but you're not as smart as you think you are."

No, Hannibal thinks. Perhaps he isn't. Not when it comes to Will.

"You know…" Will trails off, laughing shakily, and runs a hand through his hair. "I thought for so long, while I was in prison, about how it would feel to finally get what I wanted. It's amazing how good it feels not to have your strings, tugging on me. On all of us." He gestures to Miriam and Freddie.

In his periphery, Hannibal is aware of the other Alphas watching raptly. Will's words are soothing them – Hannibal is just an Omega, he's not in control, he never was. Will is, though. Will is an Alpha worth following. Whatever Will is trying to do, it's working, and Hannibal must help him do it.

He makes his voice weak, makes himself whine – though not all of it is fake, he will admit – "Will..."

"Do you regret it?" Will asks. Hannibal blinks at him. _Regret_. Will has no use for his regret, he's said it more times than Hannibal has tried to make amends. He doesn't want it. He didn't want it. Will eyes him, chin lifted, every inch of him powerful, in control. Hannibal can see how he swallows, growls low, testing the strength of his Voice.

He lowers his eyes. Swallows, and says, "No."

"No?" Will repeats.

"No," Hannibal says, and lifts his eyes again. For if he is reading this wrong, and this is the day he dies by Will's hand, he wants Will to know that; "I don't regret it. Any of it."

Something passes across Will's face, something that is almost surprised, and fond. Then it disappears, and he says, "Then I have no use for you."

He strides forward and wraps a hand in Hannibal's hair, yanking his head back to expose his vulnerable neck. Miriam lets out a cry of alarm. "Will, stop! We need his confession!"

This close, the only thing Hannibal can see is Will's face. He smiles, and tilts his head, tugs Hannibal's head back further so he's forced to bare his throat. "I don't."

One of the Alphas lets out a yell. "He's got a fucking bite on his neck!"

"So?" Freddie hisses, but it causes the other Alphas to tense, to stir.

Will straightens, letting Hannibal go, and his Voice, when it comes, is powerful; "You will stand down." Hannibal's entire body shakes with the force of it, concussive and spearing straight through his heart. If Will's bite, his kiss, did not send him into heat earlier, his Voice does the rest of the job. Hannibal's heart is racing too quickly, his body too warm. It is unheard of for an Alpha's Voice to be so absolute, to be able to compel a dozen men into static shock, but not a single Alpha runs for them. They are all frozen, eyes wide in horror as understanding dawns.

Hannibal cannot smile, his face won't move as he wants it to, but the purr he lets out is fierce and loud, and Will's scent is thick with pride.

"Alpha," Randall says, suddenly. "They're here."

"Good," Will replies, and smiles wide at Miriam and Freddie, before he breathes in, and frowns. He can undoubtedly smell Hannibal's body careening back towards his heat, and he snaps his teeth together. "Watch the women. I want to see them die."

Randall and Chris nod, and melt from the ring of Alphas. They crowd Miriam and Freddie in, and both of them look so pale, eyes wide with terror, the same way a cow would look upon the doors of the slaughterhouse.

"Will," Hannibal gasps, as Will touches him again. He paws at Will's thigh, in no state now to resist the urge to press his face to Will's belly, sagging with relief when Will's hands thread through his hair, holding him steady.

"It's okay," he whispers, soothing and low. Hannibal shudders, grimaces at the feeling of budding slick, the terrible warmth in his belly, the rise of the waves as they threaten to drown him again. "Hey, hey, you're alright. I'm here."

 _Are you_? Hannibal wants to ask. He can't – there are no words that will leave his mouth except his Alpha's name. _Will, Will, Will is here_.

The front door opens, and Will's pack enters. Will lifts his head and smiles at them, peeling himself from Hannibal long enough to say; "Kill Freddie first."

It is Randall, in the end, who takes Freddie's life. He rips out her throat with his teeth without pause, straight through the jugular in a spray of blood. Miriam screams, scrabbling for her gun, but Chris is quick to disarm her and hold her from behind as another Alpha snaps her neck. Hannibal's pack is fierce, and unmatched in their deadliness, but Will's generals are precise. There is no emotion – they descend upon the rest of the frozen Alphas without even an errant snarl, all of them like machines with the sole purpose in their programming of the slaughter.

It's beautiful, and cold, and a powerful thing to witness. Hannibal watches, because he wants to know what it looks like when Will controls his pack like Hannibal does.

He clears his throat, and manages to say; "Don't you want to hear their confession?" For Will always wanted to know, he always needed to know.

Will snaps his teeth together, and shakes his head. "I don't care," he replies, and Hannibal nods, gazing up at him. Will's pack are almost finished with their slaughter – perhaps they, like their Alpha, will remain to consume the spoils.

Randall appears at Will's side, his mouth and chest doused with fresh blood that matches the red in his eyes. "We need to get him out of here," he stage-whispers to Will.

Will nods, his lips thinning, and he turns to Randall. "Where's your phone?"

Randall's eyes fall to Hannibal. "He has it." He reaches out to take it from Hannibal's coat, but Hannibal snarls at him, for he will kill any Alpha that touches him if it's not Will. Will smiles, like he understands, and it makes him happy, and he coaxes Hannibal to lean back, drags his hands down Hannibal's chest and flanks in a touch that feels more like a tease than anything else, and pulls Randall's phone from his pocket, handing it over.

"Call Alana, tell her Hannibal's safe, that Lass and Lounds are dead, and that you're coming to help her deal with Sutcliffe." Will pauses, and turns to Hannibal with a raised brow. Hannibal has no protest, and when he gives none, Will smiles again. "Go."

Randall nods, and barks out a sharp order in Gaeilge to the Alphas. They leave like a pack of trained dogs, each of them pausing just long enough to brush their cheek against Will's, like animals do, in a gesture of friendship and pack loyalty.

Hannibal notices that Chris is the second-last to leave, and Will snarls at him, causing him to freeze in place. "I hope I don't have to doubt where your loyalties lie," he says.

Chris swallows, and shakes his head. "No, Alpha," he says, soft and fierce as a vow. He is the only one of Will's Alphas to appear visibly shaken by what just happened – Hannibal can sympathize with that, deeply. "Never." Will nods, and allows him to leave, his eyes set on Randall's with a soft beat of understanding; a promise, that if Chris should step out of line, he will be dealt with. Randall nods, and Will doesn't even look at the bodies as Randall leaves at the tail of the pack, and closes the door behind him.

There is so much, so much to say, and yet Hannibal cannot make his tongue move, cannot let the words form into anything that would make sense. He merely stares, as Will sighs and wipes a hand over his bloody cheek, licking it clean of all the Alphas, Freddie, and Miriam's blood. Hannibal is not quite in heat yet – he could, perhaps, make it upstairs before his legs give out entirely, but he dares not move, dares not do anything, lest he risk Will's wrath again.

He swallows, and whispers; "Is this the part where you kill me?"

Will's eyes flash. He presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose. "Part of me still wants to," he replies. "I think it always will."

"What you said, it may have bought you time, but it wasn't untrue."

"No," Will replies. His eyes are brilliant and bright, as though reflecting the growing bloodstains on the floor, shining with no blue, only red and black. He stands amidst the wreckage like an avenging angel, as beautiful as Hannibal has ever seen him, so powerful and absolute that even Hannibal, with all his knowledge and intuition, cannot predict him now. Will is as a star, distant and shining.

"No," Will says again, "it wasn't untrue, but it wasn't the whole truth, either." His head tilts, and he parts his jaws, drags in a deep breath through his mouth. What little color is left to his eyes is devoured by black, and a visible tremor runs down his spine. He swallows, his chin lifts. "You performed perfectly."

It wasn't entirely a façade, but Hannibal is sure Will knows that. "I trusted you," Hannibal says instead. "I still do."

Will hums, and tilts his head again. "Our contract is ended," he says. Hannibal's breath catches – no, no, Will cannot leave him now. If he leaves Hannibal to suffer through heat _and_ bond sickness at the same time, there is a very real chance that he wouldn't survive it, as underprepared for either as he is.

The threat is enough to push Hannibal to his feet, and he grabs for Will, wraps a hand in his damp hair and another around the back of his neck and snarls. Will stiffens, lifts his chin – prepared, perhaps, for Hannibal to put his teeth in Will's neck, for him to conjure a knife from somewhere and finish the job he could not finish all those months ago.

Hannibal will do neither of those things. He could not possibly bring himself to harm Will, not after this. "Don't leave."

Will's lips twitch into a thin smile. "Who said anything about leaving?"

Hannibal swallows. "Stay with me," he says instead. For Will could guard the house, place himself at the door and wait for Alana to show up with more Neutral. He could command Hannibal return to the basement and bolt him inside to wait out his heat. He could do any number of cruel, terrible things, and Hannibal knows he knows it.

But Will merely laughs, and his touch is gentle when he cups Hannibal's cheek. "Where else would I go?" he murmurs, and whatever Hannibal might have said – if he could, for with Will so close and his heat building it's getting hard to think – is lost as Will kisses him. It's a desperate thing, that holds teeth and invading tongue, Will's snarl loud in the room and echoed by a chorus of frantic whines that spill from Hannibal's mouth.

His knees tremble, threatening to buckle, and he clings to Will as Will is the only thing keeping him upright. Will growls, low and wanting, his scent thickening with desire, with want, and Hannibal wants to sate him. He wants to give Will anything and everything he could possibly ask for.

Will pulls back when he needs air, gasping, his eyes black and his cheeks red. He bares his teeth and Hannibal nuzzles his pink cheek, licks the blood clinging to his skin, tugs on his hair and drags nails down Will's back, desperate to feel Will against him.

"You can't make it home, can you?" Will asks.

Hannibal shakes his head, mouthing warm and wet on Will's neck, over the old scar he laid all those years ago, and now he wants nothing more than to reopen it. He thinks, in a shard of clarity that makes him ache, Will might actually let him.

Will nods, and grips Hannibal's wrists fiercely, forcing him to let go. Hannibal lets out a weak, pitiful noise, and Will is quick to soothe him with a purr and another nuzzling kiss. "There's a guest bedroom upstairs," he says, coaxing Hannibal into following him out of the room. "I'm not going to mount you in Jack Crawford's bed."

No, Hannibal thinks, of course he wouldn't.

Hannibal shivers, and does his best to maintain himself under his own weight, but he is so heavy, so warm that the fever rushes through him like blood, makes him ache to put his hands on Will, for Will can soothe him. Will can make it all go away.

He stumbles at the top of the stairs, falls into Will and presses him against the wall, cups his face and kisses him deeply. Every part of him feels magnetized, drawn like a fishing hook is in his mouth, behind his heart. Will tastes of blood, of Alpha, his scent thick with triumph and desire. It is the rightful claim of an Alpha, to take freely of the spoils, to mount their Omega of choice over the body of their kills. This will not be quite so literal, but that's exactly is what this is.

Will is Alpha, Hannibal is Omega, and this is what their kind was meant to do.

Will is breathless when they pull apart, and Hannibal can merely rest his forehead against Will's, breathing him in, gripping him as tight as he's able because if Will pulls away from him, rejects him now, Hannibal will kill him. He'll have no other choice.

Will swallows, shivers like he can read Hannibal's thoughts, and lets out a sweet purr, smiles gently, touches Hannibal's face and forces him back so they can keep walking towards the bedroom. "It's okay," he says. "I'm here."

And that's true, Hannibal thinks; he is.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will tell you my dudes, this is 13k and they fought me the ENTIRE FIRST HALF, like Will was being such a BITCH oh my God.

Will leads the way to a door that is propped open at the end of the top hallway. They pass another, the air thick with warm steam, the mirror still fogged and the fan running to try and cool the room back down after Will's shower. Hannibal breathes in, as deeply as he can, glad that it seems this house was used merely for base operations, and does not smell lived in. As a result, Will is the most vibrant thing in the room, something that shines and grows soft on the edges as Hannibal's eyes itch, thicken with gold, and they enter the guest bedroom.

It is a plain affair, white-walled, with light blue curtains and champagne-colored carpeting. Omega colors, and Hannibal would wonder why Jack had such a room patterned this way, but he doesn't care to think about Jack, or the bodies rapidly cooling downstairs, or what might be happening between Will's pack and the rest of their enemies as they spread out like a plague of locusts. He thinks of Will giving the order to kill anyone associated with Lass and Lounds on sight, and imagines the streets and grasses of Virginia and Maryland reddened with blood, and shivers.

He could not say what triggers the final spiral downward – perhaps it is merely the anticipation, the familiar and awful sensation of liquid heat burgeoning in his chest and melting his bones and muscle into something lax, adaptable, to accommodate whatever his Alpha desires. Perhaps it is the backflow of adrenaline that makes his eyes burn and his mouth turn dry. Perhaps it is, quite simply, the sound of the door clicking closed behind them – he could not say, but in one moment, he is almost coherent, the next he is lost.

"Will," he breathes, for he cannot say anything else. Will turns to him and gives him a warm smile, what little blue surrounds his pupils quickly being overtaken by red. He flattens Hannibal to the door and kisses him, wide and wet, along his rushing pulse, and Hannibal shivers, closes his eyes and eagerly bares his throat so that Will can nuzzle and lick over the bruising bite mark he left on Hannibal's neck. The old scar, reopened, and now it has a twin sitting just off-center from it, a Venn diagram of Will's influence over him that perfectly mirrors who they are.

Separate, but blurring together so fiercely it's almost impossible to tell where each of their edges lie.

Parts of Will are still damp from his shower, but Hannibal is soaking wet. His suit pants and underwear cling uncomfortably to his skin, chafing and slick. He is aware of sweat beading on his brow, behind his ears, along his nape and under his arms, at the small of his back, behind his knees. All places, he knows, that Alphas are programed to want to taste, and Omegas are conditioned to melt for when touched.

Will breathes in raggedly, his lips parted so Hannibal's scent can soak into the roof of his mouth, prowl down his throat and seize his lungs in a chokehold. Alphas are strong, but Omegas are powerful, able to create the perfect combination of pheromones to entice, to lure, to break. Hannibal's hands flatten along Will's shoulders and he finds them tense.

Will snaps his teeth just shy of Hannibal's neck, grabs his wrists and pushes them down. "Don't," he says, and his voice, so low and wretched, makes Hannibal ache. He wants to soothe Will, wants to offer everything he can if only to make Will smile at him as he did downstairs. It would kill him to see Will turn cold to him again.

Will lifts his head so their eyes can meet. Hannibal doesn't know what he's searching for – finds it so delightfully, frustratingly surprising that Will is able to keep such a tight control over himself with his in-heat mate pinned against him. Hannibal knows enough about human nature to have expected something so different – expected teeth, claws, Will pressed hard and heavy against him, tearing, snarling, impatient to assert himself as the dominant party. He would not call this hesitation, for that implies doubt, but the patience and control pouring from Will only highlights how _not_ in control Hannibal is, over his body and his mind and what they want.

Will merely stares at him, as if Hannibal were no more intriguing than an unusual animal he has never seen before. Hannibal shifts his weight, aware of the press of Will's nails over his pulse – not just nails, though, but the flat of his fingers too, like he's trying to measure it. He is on the verge of demanding Will act, say something, _do_ something, for even anger is passion in its own way, when Will wets his lips, and speaks;

"Did you mean what you said?" he asks. Hannibal blinks at him, tries to focus past the cresting waves of heat coursing through his body, the needy arch of his back against the door, the frantic cry of _Will, Will_ that echoes like a gunshot in his head. "You don't regret any of it?"

Hannibal swallows, and tilts his head away, partially out of a desire to goad Will into action by showing his exposed throat, and the rest because Will would know, as an Alpha, that no Omega would dare lie when they were so vulnerable.

"No," he says. "I don't."

"Even this?" Will asks, and presses one of Hannibal's hands to his own belly, where the scar sits. Through his thin shirt, Hannibal can feel the raised, hard line of its edges. His fingers curl, and he swallows harshly.

"No," is all he can say. He wants to say more – to say that, yes, he regrets causing Will pain. Yes, he regrets not giving Will a chance to explain himself, for if he had, so much would be different. Perhaps if he had let Will speak, he would have taken Will in his arms and kissed him, and let Will touch him and love him as he did before the night with Jack. But he cannot help wonder, when all's said and done, if it would have been half as honest.

Will's head tilts, and the red in his eyes seems to move, to shimmer in the harsh swath of daylight streaming in through the open curtains. The light falls upon the bed and halos Will's face in Hannibal's vision, which is beginning to grow unfocused, hazy in the presence of his mate. He is glad that, unlike before, he is not being quite so pathetic and distraught, for Will is here, Will is _here_ , and if he's here then it's better. Will can make it better. That version of themselves is friendlier, certainly, but shrouded in the things they told each other and took for granted, and were not nearly as transparent.

Will sighs through his nose, a forceful puff like he's trying to clear it of Hannibal's scent, and the implication of that makes Hannibal flinch, stomach tensing and chest turning cold when Will merely stands there. His cheeks are growing darker by fractional increments, his breathing just a little more ragged than usual, but otherwise he seems so removed, like he would never deign to let Hannibal affect him like he affects Hannibal.

"We have a lot to talk about," he says, and shakes his head, "but I won't make you suffer."

Hannibal breathes out shakily, tries to free his wrists so he can cup Will's face and kiss him and draw him to bed, but Will steps back, and when he speaks again, the power of his Voice makes Hannibal whine.

"Strip and get on your hands and knees on the bed."

Hannibal cannot disobey, for Will is his Alpha, and his Voice is the only one it will ever listen to again, now that Hannibal is tied to him. It is for that reason he allowed Will to bite him when he first did, years ago, because he knew Will would never use it against him.

His hands shake as he sheds his clothes quickly, a fine line between eagerness and compulsion that he's dancing between. Will doesn't look at him, turns away and braces himself against the window, his arms folded across his chest. After a moment, his head tilts, and he bends down to take off his shoes.

Hannibal, still guided by Will's command, crawls onto the bed, onto his hands and knees, and goes still, trembling finely and far too aware of the slickness of his thighs, the openness and heat in his body. Without Will touching him, it's so much worse, and he swallows back a plaintive noise when Will straightens, sets his shoes to one side, but makes no move to approach him.

His eyes rake Hannibal up and down brazenly, like a physical touch, but made so much worse for the fact that Will, still, refuses to come to him. He wets his lips and his knuckles turn white, nails digging into his biceps.

He breathes in again, and says, "Are you on birth control?"

Hannibal closes his eyes, and nods.

"Good." Then, Will finally approaches him, still clothed, and prowls onto the bed between Hannibal's knees. His hands flatten on Hannibal's hip, and a second on his spine, coaxing him to his elbows, and then his chest. He hears Will growl, low and throaty, hears him unbutton and unzip his jeans and push his clothes down to his thighs. Just enough bared for him to mount. It's clinical, and cold, and Hannibal shudders with revulsion.

"Will," he says, and tries to make his lips, his tongue, obey what he wants to ask. Will is barely touching him, like he cannot bear to, and it's wrong, it's all wrong. This isn't what he wants at all.

There must be something that catches in his voice, for Will hesitates, his fingers rising from Hannibal's hip like he's trying to peel himself free of wax, before they fall again, and brush along his skin in a plastic facsimile of a caress. "I need you lucid," he says, and sounds almost guilty. Hannibal wants to turn, and see his face, but every muscle in him is tense and locked, reacting too slowly.

Will sighs, lets out a quiet, discomfited sound, and smooths his hands up Hannibal's flanks, cups his shoulders, and helps him move, until Hannibal is on his back. He cups Hannibal's face and rests their foreheads together, and Hannibal can't resist the urge to tighten his legs around Will's hips, arching up, seeking. Will is hard, but not nearly to the point Hannibal would expect him to be; not as red as his eyes, not leaking as Hannibal is. Even when Hannibal whines, he barely tenses in response.

"How are you so calm?" Hannibal demands, because at this point it borders on insult. Will fought for him, killed for him – Will wants him, there's no denying that. And yet he has come to this bed like he was ordered to, like he has no other choice.

Will's lips twitch in a wry smile. "When Chilton let me go, I convinced one of his staff to steal me some Neutral – the industrial strength shit that lasts longer," he replies. "I took it before coming down here." He sighs. "I expected to come back while you were still in heat, and I wanted to be able to control myself."

Hannibal blinks at him, and then frowns deeply. Will took Neutral, so that his instincts would be deadened, his mind clear. Hannibal would almost be proud of his foresight if it didn't mean they ended up like this; he does not appreciate being the weak one, the one out of his mind with instincts that are getting harder and harder to fight, while Will is still so calm and cold.

He touches Will's neck, hisses when Will digs his nails over the bite on his throat in answer. Hannibal's stomach tightens at the feeling, his heart is racing so harshly he wonders if Will can hear it. Will's scent clouds his vision, clogs his lungs, and if he doesn't get some relief soon he doesn't know what he'll do.

As if sensing his thoughts, Will bites his lower lip, tilts his head just so, and kisses. It's passionate, for all the rest of him is lacking in enthusiasm, and Hannibal moans weakly, pawing at his shoulders as Will's hand wraps around his leaking cock, stroking tightly, but slow.

Hannibal growls, hand dropping to wrap around Will's, guiding him to a faster rhythm as he prefers. Will smiles into the next kiss, lets out a soft huff of amused fondness, and his other hand gentles on Hannibal's nape, squeezing tenderly at the pressure points just below the base of his skull that are meant to trigger a sense of calm and pliancy in Omegas. Hannibal is no more immune to it than the rest of his breed, and shivers, clinging to Will tightly with his free hand and his thighs as Will strokes him.

He wants to ask why, though pieces of the answer have already made themselves known to him. Why did Will leave? To get Freddie and Miriam, of course, to neutralize that threat once and for all. To play his hand in a way Hannibal could not, and rid himself, and Hannibal, of their enemies. Why did Will take Neutral? He has already answered that, but why, _why_ , would he want to keep his distance, after everything that has happened?

"Will," Hannibal gasps, as Will parts for air. Despite the drug keeping his instincts dull, Will is still clearly affected by Hannibal, pinned and pliant beneath him. His arm is tense and flexing as he strokes Hannibal, his teeth bared and parted as he soaks in the cloud of Hannibal's pheromones. Hannibal leans up for another kiss, for maybe he can tempt Will this way if his scent alone will not do it, and Will growls against his mouth. "Tell me. Please."

Will laughs, the sound bitter. "I thought you didn't care why people betrayed you."

But he didn't betray Hannibal. He never has, he never did, he never would. And Will has always been the exception to the rule. Hannibal can't find the wherewithal to say all that, so he merely rasps; "I care about you."

 _That_ causes a reaction – a flash of something unnamable, but deeply felt passing across Will's face before he can resist. Something that makes his shoulders drop and his hand flex on Hannibal's nape. He moves, only enough to force Hannibal's thighs farther apart, kneeling closer between them, and his hand slides into Hannibal's hair, grips him tightly as he continues to stroke.

Hannibal swallows, hardly able to keep his eyes open. His body is little more than a small raft under the onslaught of the tempest that is his heat, and the waves of it crash over him, concussive and powerful enough to make his breath catch. His body clenches, aching and open and empty. He wants Will – teeth, tongue, hands, knot. He reaches up and Will lets his cock go, grabs both wrists in one strong hand and rears over Hannibal, pinning them above his head.

It startles a rough gasp out of Hannibal, a purr coiling and lodged in his throat. Oh, Will is strong – so capable, such a powerful Alpha. Of course he would be; Hannibal would never even glance at someone who wasn't capable of being his equal.

"Look at me," Will commands, though Hannibal could not possibly look anywhere else. Without his hand to help, Will arches his spine and presses his hips tight to the bottom of Hannibal's thighs, makes him curl up, and their erections slide together through a mess of pooling slick and leaking precum. It's wonderful friction, much more intimate than Will's hand, and makes Hannibal moan, lifting his head to lick and kiss Will's blood-stained cheek.

Will snarls, lowers his head and bites down, gently enough it doesn't even hurt, under Hannibal's ear. "I can't give you what you need," he says, and Hannibal doesn't like how pitiful his answering whine is. "Not like this."

" _Will_."

"I don't want you gift-wrapped, Hannibal. I don't need you to beg, I don't care what you'd take back or what you'd do differently. All I've ever wanted from you was honesty." His pace does not slow, but he doesn't lift his head, doesn't let Hannibal see his eyes. Pinned as he is, Hannibal can't do much to make him. "This isn't honest. Your heat isn't honest – it's just another Chess move in your gambit. If we'd -."

He pauses, choking, sucks in a deep breath. His cock twitches against Hannibal's as he does it, he nuzzles the pulsing heat of the bruise on Hannibal's neck, his nails digging into Hannibal's wrists, along his pulse, his other hand still tight in Hannibal's hair.

"If you hadn't done what you did, if we still had what we had – that wasn't honest either." Hannibal opens his mouth, tries to answer, but Will bites him again, suckles harsh at his sweaty skin, and Hannibal falls silent with another shiver. "There are things I thought about you that weren't true; things you assumed about me that were wrong, so I can't -."

In a sharp moment of clarity, the words Randall told him since Will's release flicker in his mind, like a fire given new oxygen. Not just 'You're doing a very good job of pretending you don't want him', not just, 'In what way, I wonder?', not just 'Wouldn't kill you to say it once in a while'. It occurs to him, salt-edged and sudden, that of course, of course Will doesn't really know how he feels. The one time Hannibal could have confessed to all of it, he put a knife in Will's belly instead, an in doing so, destroyed the chances that Will could ever think it genuine, and closed him to the idea of Hannibal's love.

He has said, since then, lighter platitudes; 'I want to be near you' and 'I don't want to hurt you' and 'I care about you', but those are things he would have said before, as well. Everything he does feels false, that's what Will said.

Even going into heat, stopping his suppressants so that he could tug on Will's instincts – that was part of the game, the 'gambit', as he called it. Another manipulation. There is only one thing he can do, he thinks, that will prove to Will just how much he desires him, and loves him. It's a risky move, for if Will reacts badly Hannibal is in no position to stop him doing grievous harm, but it's all he can do.

He sucks in a breath, and lifts his head, his lips dragging along Will's long, bared neck. Will tenses immediately, going still. He snarls in warning, his shoulders rolling up, but he doesn't pull back. Hannibal edges his teeth along Will's thrumming pulse, smells him starkly, mint and lemongrass – dulled by Neutral, but still very much there, his scent thickening with his sweat where the shower had made him clean.

Still, Will does not fight him. Perhaps he is curious to see if Hannibal will do it.

He has no doubt, no reservations – biting Will back will recreate and reform their bond, allow themselves dependency and power over each other. He will be able to sense Will, and Will him, when they are together. They only bit each other the one time years ago, and didn't cement the bond with sexual contact, so it did not grow strong beyond trust and Voices, but this way – well, Hannibal is certain it will do the trick. If at first you don’t succeed…

He pulls his lips back, and bites down savagely, his mouth flooding with Will's blood as Will cries out hard against his neck, and bites him in return, hard enough to split skin a third time and create another ring of teeth marks on the edges of the other two bites. His grip on Hannibal's wrists loosens, allows him to grab for Will as he likes, dig his nails into Will's back and force him more fiercely against Hannibal's body.

Will moans, shuddering as their cocks rut together, his hand curling tight around Hannibal's nape and the second on his shoulder, digging into his bare skin like he wants to tear there, too. Hannibal would let him. He feels the weight of Will return to his skull like the master of the house coming home, breathes in with it and whines, tonguing at the bite mark so that it continues to bleed.

Will rears up, his teeth bared and jaws parted, his eyes and hair wild, and he fits a hand to Hannibal's neck. He doesn't say anything, merely bows his head and releases Hannibal's throat, brings his hand down to wrap around both of them and stroke quickly.

Hannibal swallows, licking Will's blood from his teeth, his lashes fluttering as the heat in his belly expands, grows claws, shredding through him. Still, he refuses to let his eyes close, refuses to deny himself even a moment of watching Will like this. He's so beautiful, powerful and absolute, even in the midst of his own internal trauma – still, he watches Hannibal, eyes burning bright and red, and his free hand drags down and settles warmly over Hannibal's racing heart.

"I know it's not enough," he says, breathless, gritting his teeth as his thighs tense and his shoulders roll. He tilts his head to one side, away from Hannibal's bite like he wants to feel how it pulls and aches in his throat. "I know –. I can't -."

He could, though, before, when it was going to be detached and cold. Now, though Will's touch does nothing to ease the hollowness of Hannibal's body, he can see how much Will likes it; can see, in the way his chest heaves and his cock is starting to leak, that he's succumbing to Hannibal's scent, his heat. Industrial-strength Neutral might last longer but it's no match for an Omega scent of Hannibal's strength, nor the potency of his bite. It cannot stop a heat or a rut between mates.

He reaches up and gently settles his hand over Will's, on his heart. Curls his fingers and forces himself to say, "It's alright, Will." Will's eyes flash, darken, his chin lifts like he's trying to find air that doesn't smell like Hannibal – he won't; Hannibal has leaked enough to soak the mattress and sheets, to clog the open air. "It's okay."

Will lets out a sharp, heavy sound, like a whine, stuck in his chest and interrupting the rumbling snarl gathered in his throat. He leans down and cups Hannibal's cheek, kisses him fiercely and releases their cocks, rutting against Hannibal with a desperation Hannibal didn't expect, but relishes all the same. He nuzzles Will's neck, drags his nails up Will's back, wraps his thighs around Will's hips as Will kisses him, bites savagely at his lower lip, his jaw, his neck again.

He sucks over the trilogy of bites on Hannibal's neck, snarls weak and wanton, and goes still above Hannibal, trembling from neck to knees as he comes. Hannibal gasps at the feeling of Will's warm, wet seed spilling over his cock and belly – marking him, he is sure, as Will regathers himself and continues to grind, smearing it over Hannibal's bare skin and into Will's shirt.

Will groans, lowers his hand to cup Hannibal's thigh and lifts him to grind more purposefully against Will's stomach. His shirt rides up, wet and bunching, and Hannibal shivers as his cockhead smears along Will's bare stomach, up to the scar Hannibal left across his belly. The nudge of it, the raised, knotted line and stark reminder that, despite everything, because of everything, Will is _here_ – that's enough. This is not some fever dream, something restless and wanting calling out from Hannibal's psyche. This is not some terrible, unfulfilled need going unanswered by his absent mate.

He closes his eyes, grips Will's hair, and kisses him as he finishes, muffles his moan against Will's blood-slicked cheek and gasps as Will goes still again, letting Hannibal's hips flex and roll, coating Will's scar and stomach, his own hand. His body clenches, leaking new slick, his thighs wet with it and making Will's clothes chafe terribly against his sensitive skin. It's not what he wanted, but it's enough to clear the fog from his mind somewhat.

It's enough to free his tongue, to let him turn his face to Will's neck and whisper; "Whatever you need for me to prove myself to you, I'll do."

Will huffs, a laugh both strangled and sad. "I'll let you know when I think of it," he replies, and nuzzles Hannibal's cheek, pulling back. Will took most of the stains, in the end, his shirt and jeans very dark from their come and Hannibal's slick. He runs a hand through his hair, breathes out heavily, and rests their foreheads together. Hannibal sighs, content to rest for a moment, purring softly at having Will's weight and warmth covering him, and then Will pulls back.

"Come on," he says, when Hannibal growls at him. He smiles, and takes Hannibal's hands, helping him to his feet, and guides him towards the guest bathroom, flicking the light on. He releases Hannibal just long enough to turn on the water for the bath, and rises as it begins to fill. "Where's your phone?"

"In a bag of rice in my kitchen," Hannibal replies. Will's head tilts. "When I first went into heat, Alana put me in a bath, fully-clothed. It went with me."

Will blinks at him, and then laughs. "Alright. Well, I can see if one of Lass' people had a phone so I can check on Randall and Alana." Hannibal nods, though the thought of Will leaving him sends another shiver of unpleasant coldness through his chest. Will notices, and goes to him, turning the bath off once it's full enough for Hannibal to sit in, and touches his cheek.

"Get in," he says, just enough Alpha command that Hannibal can obey without forcing himself to consciously think about it. Hannibal nods, and steps into the cool water, settling with a sigh. Will leans down and nuzzles his forehead. "I'll be right back, I swear."

Hannibal nods, closing his eyes. The last time Will promised that, he ended up here. He doesn't say it, and forces himself not to rise and follow like a plaintive animal as Will stands, correcting his clothes, and leaves the room. The door remains open, so at least Hannibal is able to hear him moving around. He listens to the creak of the floorboards, the groan of the stairs. For one heart-stopping moment, there is silence, and Hannibal tenses, prepared if he must to get out of the bath and rush to go find Will, but then the sounds return, and Will darkens the doorway and comes inside, a phone in his hand.

It's another burner phone, and has the stink of one of the Alphas upon it. Will settles next to the bath with a sigh, his back to the cabinet, so he's facing Hannibal and Hannibal can reach out, one hand and arm dripping with water, and touch the back of Will's knuckles. Will smiles at him, and lets their fingers lace for a moment.

He opens the phone and dials Randall's number, puts it on speaker, and waits while it rings. Randall answers after a moment; "Hello?"

"Randall, it's me," Will says, and Hannibal tilts his head back against the tile, his body shivering as it tries to warm the cool water sloshing around him. He sinks down as much as he can, trying to convince himself that the water is refreshing and helping him keep himself sane, but Will's proximity, his voice, are dogged and desperate distractions. "Anything to report?"

"We met up with Alana," Randall says, and Hannibal blinks. He has no way to gauge the time in here, and Will isn't wearing a watch, but he can't imagine they were indisposed for that long. Then again, time moves differently to a mind entrenched in heat – the minutes drag on for hours, the days blend together. Will could tell him they've been here a week and he would have no reason not to believe him. "Sutcliffe had her hostage at Hannibal's office, tried to pull some shit. I put him down."

Hannibal can feel Will's eyes dart to him, too-aware of his Alpha, and his neck throbs. He tries to offer a pleased smile in return, and nods, and hopes Will gathers that he has no hard feelings about that. Hannibal might not be a typical pack leader, but any threat to his beta will be met with swift and vicious punishment, regardless of who makes it.

"She got some Neutral, if you're able to get to us. Or she can come there."

Will is silent, long enough that Hannibal opens his eyes. His head rolls, his neck too weak to support himself, and he meets Will's eyes, finds him worrying his lower lip as though torn with indecision. Neutral will not stop Hannibal's heat, only delay it – but it will see him back in his home, and will give them enough time to talk.

So it surprises him when Will says; "No. He's too far gone; it'll be faster just to let him ride it out."

Randall gives a soft hum of acknowledgement, and says; "I'll leave clothes and food for you guys in the car then, and the drugs if you change your mind. Are you keeping this phone?" Will hums in acknowledgement. "Alright. Call me when you're coming home."

Will smiles, and ends the call, setting the phone to one side. Hannibal swallows, and says, "You continue to surprise me."

Will tilts his head.

"I would have expected you to remove us from this place as soon as possible – to 'get me lucid', as you said."

Will winces, and runs a hand through his hair, his other one idly swirling the water around in the tub. It is turning colder by the minute, only fractionally warming because Hannibal's body is running so hot. Still, it has done the job of clearing his head, and his recent orgasm has rendered him somewhat communicative.

"Delaying your heat just means we wait longer," he replies after a while. "I don't want you suffering for any more time than you have to."

Hannibal huffs. "I thought you would delight in my suffering," he says warmly, earning Will's eyes again. "It's my penance, is it not? After everything, to be in heat around my mate when he doesn't want me."

"I don't -." Will stops, sucks in a breath, the red in his eyes flashing. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Try to goad me," Will snaps, though it's without much heat. He rubs a hand over his jaw and sighs through his fingers. He touches the bite mark on his neck, still an angry red and undoubtedly tender, and sighs again. "I know you're just…in heat, you'd do and say anything you thought you had to if it meant…. But I can't let you, Hannibal."

"Will, I must have truly failed, if you ever doubted that my affection for you was honest," Hannibal replies. He takes Will's hand in the water, pleased when Will doesn't flinch, doesn't tense up. Why would he? Hannibal is no threat to him, as he is right now. "Even before all this, yes, we lied to each other – for personal gain, or because we didn't think certain things important enough to reveal, or for whatever reason. We did, and I acknowledge that." He presses his lips together, and wonders if Will might snap at him for adding; "But since your release, you have been far more dishonest than I have. I have been nothing but open with you."

Will looks at him. Looks at him, and looks, until Hannibal feels like he might simply have turned to stone. Then, he sighs through his nose. "What did you learn?"

"I know that Lass visited you in prison. I know that you conspired, somehow, to integrate your pack to hers so that you could gain the upper hand – again, either to take me down, or for your own personal vendetta, to the point where you threatened one of your generals after all was said and done." Will nods, his eyes falling away. "I know you lied to Randall, or at least kept things from him – from everyone."

"I had to," Will says, neither defensive nor apologetic.

"And I still trusted you, when the time came," Hannibal finishes. "I still do, now."

"How?" Will asks, and shakes his head. "I can't –. I still have dreams, Hannibal, where I wake up and you're standing over me and there's a knife in your hand." His voice has gone soft, and despite his words, he pets his thumb over Hannibal's knuckles. "I have dreams that…are worse," he adds. "Where Jack succeeded, and killed you."

His inhale, when it comes, is shuddery.

"And still, after everything, I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here." Will's eyes are bright, brimming with water Hannibal knows he will not allow to fall. He wipes a hand over his face and shivers, squeezing Hannibal's hand tightly.

Hannibal has held so much of his own emotion to his chest, for the sake of their friendship. He cannot afford to do that now. He sits forward, water pooling and gathering behind his back, and reaches for Will, gently touching his fingers to Will's red cheek. Will looks at him.

"I don't want you to leave, Will," he murmurs. Will presses his lips together. "This was true before I went into heat, and it's true now, and it will remain true when my heat is passed. Even if you can never be more than my friend, and you want to return to how things were…" It will hurt, of course it will hurt, but having Will by his side as a friend and ally is better than having him as an enemy, or not having him at all.

Will's eyes are wide, and he turns his head, pressing his cheek to Hannibal's palm. He scents him there, not subtly, and his eyes darken. Hannibal feels an answering recoil of desire crawl down his spine.

"You'll get your Voice soon," Will breathes, and Hannibal nods. "Are you going to force me to stay? To mount you?"

"No," Hannibal says sharply. He would _never._ "Your free will is more important to me than any temporary satisfaction you could give me."

Will blinks, his expression momentarily melting into something surprised and fond, and then he nods to himself, and stands, so Hannibal is forced to let him go. "Come with me," he murmurs, and helps Hannibal to his feet, drying him off with a damp towel that still smells like Will. They go back to the guest bedroom, and Will kisses him, presses him down and covers Hannibal with his warmth and weight, his hands splaying out wide along Hannibal's flanks, to his hips, to keep him down.

"Shh," Will whispers, when Hannibal whines, spreading his thighs and arcing up as best he can, that wave, that terrible chasm of need and emptiness, rising up in him again. "I'm here."

 

 

They spend Hannibal's heat like that, Will using his body, his fingers, his mouth whenever Hannibal gets so desperate he is rendered mute. Will seems to gauge his level of need by how talkative he is, knows the precise moment Hannibal trips from wanting to desperate, learns the fastest ways to bring him to orgasm so that his periods of lucidity are frequent, though growing shorter and shorter by the day.

He gets a text from Randall when Randall brings them food, and leaves Hannibal in the bath again while he goes to retrieve it. It's all simple things – ham sandwiches and fresh fruit and packages of deli meat and cheese, things that are easy and quick to eat, require no preparation, and can be eaten with their hands. Will also brings with him several large, sealed bottles of water, that he keeps in a cluster by the bed so that they don't get too dehydrated.

No one disturbs them, and although Hannibal tries to remain cognizant of passing time, it all blends together. Eating with Will, speaking with Will, sex with Will – not the satisfying feeling of a knot, but Will soon learns how to curl his fingers to mimic one, how to plug Hannibal full and touch his cock until he comes. Hannibal learns that Will likes being kissed on his neck, it's sensitive especially for an Alpha, perhaps more so than Hannibal's is. He learns Will likes having his hair pulled, and responds eagerly when he can manage to wrench pitiful, needy noises from Hannibal's throat. Despite not being in rut, and still subdued by the Neutral in his body, Will is a passionate and capable bedmate, liberal with everything he can do, every touch and kiss and wordless snarl, as long as Hannibal doesn't make any attempt to force Will to penetrate him.

Hannibal can feel the precise moment his vocal cords swell, watered by Will's blood, pressing on the gland that gives him his Voice. He doesn't use it, because he promised he wouldn't, and he thinks Will realizes it at the same time, for how surprised and grateful he seems, and how sweetly he kisses Hannibal, after.

Hannibal's sense of passing time crests and ebbs with each orgasm. While he is panting and trembling, it stretches on and grinds to a standstill. When he is with Will and somewhat lucid, it flies, shorter and shorter like an animal realizing it quite likes the flavor of whatever it is gnawing upon. But time passes, because it must, and on the morning of the fourth day, Hannibal wakes from a restless sleep to find his body cramping, sore, absolutely soaked in slick and come, and mercifully alert.

Will is behind him, high on the bed, his nose tucked to Hannibal's sweaty hair, his arms held in a loose embrace around his neck and upper chest, hands resting against his heart. Hannibal touches him, reaches back and smooths a hand along Will's ankle, and Will stirs with a sleepy, tired grumble, and breathes in.

"Is it over?" he asks, and Hannibal tries not to wonder if he sounds more disappointed or relieved.

He nods, and Will sighs, nuzzling Hannibal's hair and down to his ear. He breathes in at Hannibal's scent glands, as if not trusting Hannibal's awareness of his own body – though, perhaps, it's not an unwarranted concern. But he is sure it's over – his aches have turned from the deep, desperate desire to be filled to the staunch refusal, terrible cramps that make him wince and rub tenderly at his stained stomach. Though his body received no knot, and there is no possibility of a child planted in him, his instincts will demand he rest, reject any attempt at sexual contact, and be wholly unpleasant to any foreign Alpha who is not his mate.

Will hums, as if sensing his thoughts, and kisses below his ear, his warm exhale causing a pleasant shiver to run down Hannibal's spine. Will moves with another sigh, and Hannibal rolls onto his back, wincing at the protesting sting of his chafed, raw thighs, his shivering muscles, his dry mouth and pounding headache. All in all, quite an unpleasant experience, and one he is not eager to have again.

He sits up, and winces, putting his hand to his head as the headache resettles itself to behind his eyes. Will hands him a water bottle without a word, and he opens it and drinks, his stomach protesting the cold water. It helps, at least for his mouth to feel better, and he drinks the rest of the water slowly as Will sits beside him, nursing his own drink. He had, during one of their rounds together, shed his clothes, so he's bare and beautiful, a feast for Hannibal's eyes.

His hair is soaked in sweat, his cheeks flushed, his skin shining with it. There is a collar of bruises and bites along his throat and down his chest, as well as his shoulders and arms – anywhere Hannibal could reach, he bit. His back has been raked raw by Hannibal's nails, red lines raised up in vicious-looking clawed wings. The bruises around his eyes have faded, but his lip is still welted, his teeth red. He gave no sign of being in pain during Hannibal's heat, but there are bruises that Hannibal did not place, and marks around his wrists, and Hannibal is sure now that the adrenaline and rut-like instincts are due to wear off, he will feel them all sharply.

He reaches out, and cradles Will's shoulder, unrepentantly rubbing his cheek against Will's back.

"The warm water will help," he says. Will finishes his water bottle, tosses it behind him on the bed, and nods. He rises, and helps Hannibal to his feet, huffing a soft laugh as Hannibal stumbles. He looks remarkably proud of himself.

Will meets his eyes as Hannibal straightens, his expression softening, and he cups Hannibal's cheek. "You still don’t want me to leave?" he asks.

"No," Hannibal replies, immediately, fiercely. He shakes his head, cradles Will's wrist, and turns so he can kiss Will's palm. "Never."

Will smiles – and oh, God, _there_ it is. The smile he used to give so openly, freely; the one it seemed only Hannibal could pull from him even in the blackest rage. It brightens his eyes, which are returning now to their normal blue, dimples his cheeks, makes him look like the weight of the world has suddenly been thrown from his back. Hannibal's chest seizes on seeing it.

"Will?" he breathes, for he needs to say something. Or maybe he needs Will to say something. _Something. Anything_.

In answer, Will kisses him, surprisingly chaste and wonderfully sweet, and when he pulls away, the smile is still there. His warmth, his touch, is still here. _Will is here_.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get cleaned up."

 

 

Hannibal showers first, since Will argued that the shower was much too slippery and narrow for two grown men to try and use it, and neither of them are particularly quick with their reflexes at the moment. Hannibal agreed, albeit reluctantly, and when he emerges and Will enters, he finds Will has laid out a set of clothes for him – pilfered from his wardrobe, he thinks, and he can smell Alana on them. He dresses, feeling much more like himself, and while Will showers, he heads downstairs to look at the carnage.

Everything is as they left it. Miriam and Freddie, awash in a dark pool of old, cold blood. The Alphas gathered around, their limbs akimbo and eyes white and staring, in a halo around the two women. What a waste of good meat. He huffs, and nudges his toe against the nearest Alpha's hand in disdain.

His head lifts, as he hears the shower turn off, and he rushes upstairs to find Will emerging in a cloud of steam, dressed in another pair of jeans and a long-sleeved blue sweater that goes past his wrists and sits wide across his neck, baring the darkening ring of bruises and bite marks Hannibal placed on him.

He stills, and his breath catches in recognition. That's one of _his_ sweaters.

Will meets his eyes, lifts a brow. What could Hannibal do, but go to him and embrace him, push him against the nearest wall and kiss him fiercely. Will stinks of his scent, is absolutely drenched in it, and Hannibal is purring – loud, low, matching Will's bass rumble as Will happily lets himself be kissed.

He wants to ask if Will requested the clothes, if he wanted to make some kind of gesture to appease Hannibal; if perhaps Randall had simply gathered it by mistake, and thought nothing of Hannibal's scent on the fabric.

He rests their foreheads together, petting down Will's arms, until he reaches the sleeves, the soft fabric sliding between his fingertips, and rasps; "This suits you."

Will laughs. "Too-big clothes suit me?" he teases.

" _My_ clothes suit you," Hannibal replies. Will's scent is sweet, thick with triumph over his kill, his victory, the wild satisfaction of having his Omega go into heat just after, forming a connection in his lizard brain between his prowess and Hannibal's eagerness. Not something Hannibal did by design, but he is more than happy to let the correlation form. He dares to add; "Being mine suits you."

Will hums, lashes going low, and he lifts his chin to show Hannibal more of his neck. "I think so, too," he replies, and Hannibal's head brightens with joy upon hearing it. Will leans into him, kisses him again, and takes his hands. "Let's go home."

 

 

They arrive on the end of Hannibal's street to find nothing less than a full siege in place. Will snarls, his eyes darkening with recognition as he no-doubt takes in the faces of Lass' and Lounds' people, all camped out in Hannibal's front yard like a group of vagrants. Around them, Randall is leading the resistance, Hannibal's men and the same group of Alphas Will summoned surrounding the foreign Alphas and women and keeping them penned in.

Will gets out of the car first, and waits for Hannibal. Hannibal tilts his head, and Will meets his eyes.

"We do this together," he says, and Hannibal smiles, and takes his outstretched hand.

Randall turns on hearing Will's voice, his face such a stark expression of relief when he sees Will, alive and relatively unharmed. He hurries to his Alpha and brushes their cheeks together, his purr loud and pleased, and then he turns to look at the foreign group.

"How long have they been here?" Will asks.

"About six hours, now," Randall replies. "I knew you were coming, so I told everyone to stand their ground. We haven't had any trouble so far."

Will nods. "Who's leading them?"

"One of Jack's," Randall replies. "Brian Zeller?"

Will blinks in surprise. "I know him," he says. "Take me to him."

Randall nods, and turns, leading the way through the throng of Will and Hannibal's people – many more than who showed up at the house, Hannibal notes. It appears his and Will's previous orders were obeyed, and everyone that could came to the house. He remembers Will asking Randall; 'If I summoned all of them, would they come?'. And Randall clearly had not been lying when he'd answered 'Yes'. Hannibal sees Bedelia with her flock, Chiyoh standing stoic beside her, her own company flanking Hannibal's generals on either side.

They are led to a cluster of three – two Alphas, and a woman. One of the men, who Hannibal would guess to be Will's age, turns and meets his eyes, and swallows harshly. He breaks away from the other two and approaches Will and Hannibal slowly, bowing his head at Randall's warning look and obvious placement at Will's right hand.

"Alpha," he says, and Will lifts his chin. "We heard what happened to Freddie and Miriam."

"Good," Will replies. "Is this your surrender, or a last stand?"

"Miriam was the one so hell-bent on revenge," Brian says, his eyes darting up to meet Will's, and then falling away again. Behind him, the other two nod. Hannibal tilts his head curiously, watching them, and all the rest as they regard the exchange with a furtive mix of hope and wariness. No, these do not seem like people who came here for a fight. "Most of us didn't -. Only the die-hards were the ones she managed to convince."

Will laughs – it's a cruel, cutting sound. "Is your lack of loyalty supposed to reassure me?" he demands.

His question is enough to send a ripple of unease through those gathered. Hannibal's pack is stoic, Will's all almost detached – machines, dogs, ready to be called to heel or made to slaughter should Will give the word.

Brian winces, and rubs at his neck, baring it for Will's teeth. "We're here to say we don't have any fight with you," he says earnestly. "We didn't have any damn fight in the first place. Most of us have made new lives since Jack died, and we don't want to get back into any of that bullshit, with either of you." He swallows again, and adds, "You don't have anything to fear from us."

"I'd argue we don't have anything to fear regardless," Hannibal says coolly, and Will smiles at him, his chest rumbling with a soft purr.

"Well," Will says, like this is beginning to bore him, and rakes his eyes over the gathered crowd – what is left of Miriam's pack, and Freddie's, and then his and Hannibal's people. "As you said, I have no fight with you. It's my mate you've insulted, so your fate is in his hands."

Hannibal blinks in surprise, and Will smiles at him again. He senses, on the borders of his mind that rests against Will's, that this is some sort of test. Should he be merciful, and forgiving, and let all of them go – to either live the rest of their lives in peace, or potentially rise up against him again? Should he slaughter them all and be done with it?

Will is not merciful when it suits him. He is understanding, empathetic, of course, but terribly cruel, and vindictive, and righteous. And they still have enemies – Dolarhyde claimed he would remain neutral, but who's to say all these people will not flock to his side, in an attempt to rise up against Will and himself and rid the world of them once and for all? Any additional threat, to himself or his mate, is unthinkable.

He clears his throat, decided. "You may go," he says, and Brian looks at him, shoulders lowering in relief. "If you swear, to me and Will, that you will come to our aid should we have need of you, and will refuse to help our enemies if they ask for it."

He knows he made the right choice, for beside him, Will is smiling.

"We swear it," Brian says, and around him, all the rest nod. Hannibal and Will nod as well, and the circle of their packs part to allow everyone to leave. They depart like rats from a sinking ship, the air stinking of happiness and relief, that they were all allowed to live.

Will huffs a laugh. "You surprised me," he murmurs, quietly enough no one else can hear. Randall parts from them, meets Alana, and brings up the tail of the dispersing pack, making sure everyone leaves on their merry way.

"Oh?" Hannibal replies.

"I half-expected you to kill them all."

"Part of me thinks it would have been the wiser choice," Hannibal admits. "But you knew him, and you gave him a chance to speak. I thought that it would have been a terrible tragedy, to rid us of so many potential new friends."

Will blinks at him, his eyes dark. He wets his lips, and squeezes Hannibal's hand tightly. "I agree."

 

 

Although he knows he should not have expected otherwise, things with Will fall back into an almost wary intimacy. Will sleeps in his nest, still, leaving Hannibal bereft in his bed, but Hannibal goes back on his suppressants and takes them religiously, unwilling to risk going into heat again. Randall remains with them long enough to ensure a counterstrike is not on the horizon, and visits daily at first.

Will invites Katherine back to the house, and they begin bi-weekly lessons, so that Hannibal can learn Gaeilge. When Hannibal asks him why, Will laughs, and simply says, "You were going to figure it out eventually. Might as well give you the head start."

They dine together every night. Hannibal cooks for Will, keeps the home, goes with him when Will leaves to feed his dogs. He considers building a kennel for them in his back yard, but he is wary of suggesting it, in case Will takes it as a sign of permanence he doesn't want to admit to, and resists. Though Will seems in no hurry to leave, he also makes no move to transfer any of his belongings to Hannibal's house, and makes no mention of selling his own. Hannibal is too afraid to ask if he ever means to.

Will kisses him, when it pleases him, frequently robs Hannibal of breath and thought, for his affection comes so openly and without warning. Still, he does not touch Hannibal more intimately than that, no longer presses him to the wall or scents his neck, does not darken the doorway of Hannibal's bedroom. Will had always been so tactile with him, before the night with Jack, and with the simmering remnants of heat clinging to Hannibal's skull, it feels like the worst kind of torture to only be given a taste of it now.

It is six months to the day that Will signed the contract when he finds Hannibal, preparing tonight's dinner. He has the manila folder in his hand, and sets it on the counter by Hannibal's cutting board, upon which lies a human heart that he intended to prepare.

"It's officially over," Will tells him, and Hannibal's heart stops in his chest, sure that, now, Will means to tell Hannibal he will go. He has no further obligation, nothing tying him to this place. The healed scar on Hannibal's neck throbs tenderly like it has been reopened, and he pauses in his work, breathes in deeply, and nods.

"Will you return home?" he asks.

Will is silent, and when Hannibal manages to open his eyes and look his way, he finds Will frowning. "This is home," he says.

"Is it?" Hannibal replies.

Will's frown deepens, his shoulders rolling up and tense to hide his neck, his arms folding across his chest. He shifts his weight, looking deeply uncomfortable, unsure, and he bites his lower lip. "I thought it was," he murmurs.

"It is," Hannibal says, turning to Will. "If you want it to be."

Will's eyes lift.

"I want you to stay, Will, I've made that no secret," Hannibal continues. If Will wants honesty, Hannibal can certainly give him that. There is nothing left to hide; "If you want to make your nest into your room, or if you want to…" He swallows. "I want you here. I always have, I always will. In whatever capacity you'll allow it." He gestures to the folder. "No contracts, no obligations. I want you here."

Will shivers visibly, his throat flexing. The bite Hannibal gave him sits just above his first one, red and white, a testament and reminder to how much they have been through, both together and apart. His brow furrows, and he wets his lips, and sighs through his nose.

He reaches out and touches the back of Hannibal's hand, where it rests over the folder. "Wrap everything up and come upstairs," he says, and Hannibal's eyes widen, his stomach clenches with a visceral stab of hope. He nods, and Will's lips twitch in a warm, small smile. He turns, and leaves the kitchen.

Hannibal is quick to put the heart back in the fridge, wrapped in Clingfilm to be prepared and eaten later. He had not gotten very far in preparing everything else, so he turns off the stove and washes his hands, and hurries upstairs. Instinct tells him Will is not going to be in his bedroom, and indeed, he follows his nose, to find Will within the room with his nest.

He freezes at the doorway, and Will turns to him, smiling warmly. He reaches, and Hannibal goes to him, lacing their fingers together as Will brings him close, until their chests touch, and he lifts his head and kisses warm and gentle along Hannibal's jaw.

"I know it seems stupid, given everything that's happened," he says, "I just didn't want…"

"I know," Hannibal replies, threading a hand through Will's soft, curling hair. It's grown long again, brushing over his neck, and Hannibal pushes it out of the way so he can nuzzle the bite marks he left. He knows what Will means – he didn't want to do anything when the contract was still over their heads. If Hannibal had been any less of a coward, he would have burned the damn thing the second they got home.

Will's hands flatten on his hips, he shivers and growls as Hannibal arches against him, as eager as if he were still in heat, his body ready and slickening immediately, desperate to feel the touch of its mate. He can feel it, pooling in his body, making his clothes dampen and cling, and Will parts from the kiss with an unsteady inhale, his eyes flashing and darkening to red.

His upper lip twitches back, and he lets out a low, ragged sound, and steps back enough that his hands can fit between them. Hannibal took off the outer layers of his suit in preparation to cook, so he is only wearing a white button-down and black suit pants, his shoes and socks. Will is barefoot, in jeans and a thin, old t-shirt. Hannibal leans in as Will starts to undo his shirt, kisses Will's sensitive neck, and slides his hands down to dip below the hem of his shirt.

Will tenses, but doesn't stop.

"Let me see you," Hannibal murmurs, and Will nods, pulling back to allow Hannibal to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it to join the mess that is his nest. His hands return to Hannibal's shirt, undoing the last button, and he pushes it off Hannibal's shoulders.

He takes it, bites his lower lip, and adds it to the nest as well. Hannibal's head goes warm at the gesture. Will comes back to him, and they shed the rest of their clothes, scattering them around in a haphazard mess, until they are both bare. Will shivers as though cold, his hands blindly seeking Hannibal's warmth as Hannibal nudges him gently, nose to Will's neck, and guides him to the edge of the nest.

Will hits it first, and lies on his back, Hannibal climbing into his lap and settling with a sigh. Will's scent is thick, burning the roof of his mouth and searing his lungs, so much more potent without the Neutral to keep him calm and level-headed. His eyes are a blistering red, his cheeks flushing prettily in the low light, and Hannibal leans down and threads both hands through Will's hair, kissing him deeply as Will gasps, lets out a ragged, wanton noise, and lifts his hips to grind between Hannibal's legs.

"Is this how you want it?" he breathes, when Hannibal lets him.

 _Yes_. Hannibal didn't give it much consideration beforehand, but yes, he wants to be able to see Will's face. Wants to watch him when he first sinks inside. He wants Will pinned, helpless, riled up and unable to do anything but let Hannibal use him. In turn, he wants Will wild, wants him savage and snarling and forcing Hannibal to take whatever he will give.

"I want to see you," is what he says instead of any of that, but he thinks, judging by the look in Will's eyes, that he understands completely. There is a thrumming in his head, tugging at their bond and begging they take, _take_ , and seal it wholly. The half-formed awareness of Will has been pleasant, and soothing to Hannibal when his doubts and worries plagued him, but having Will like this will be like salting caramel, and merely make it sweeter.

Will is here, and he is Hannibal's, and Hannibal is going to make sure he knows it by the end.

 _What will be left, by the time you're done_? Nothing, nothing, if Hannibal has his way. They will merge together, melt together, forge themselves inside each other veins until they can act and move as one. Until an order from Hannibal is an order from Will, until everyone on the whole damn Eastern seaboard cowers at the sound of their names.

Will stares at him, like he can see all of this. His hands lift, flatten on Hannibal's bare skin, nails dragging through the hair pelted across his chest. He growls, and rolls his hips, and Hannibal tilts his head back, eyes closing and moving to help, to wet Will's cock with the slick that has already starting to leak from him. He puts his hands on Will's belly, over the scar, and Will snarls loudly.

"Look at me," he demands, and though he doesn't use his Voice, Hannibal obeys as if he had, his eyes widening as their gazes meet. Will lifts his chin, shows Hannibal the pretty, bared arch of his throat, and drags his fingers down – one hand wraps around Hannibal's cock, the second around Will's, tugging so Hannibal rises to his knees and Will can angle his cock down, seeking entrance. Hannibal is in no mood to delay this, and so as soon as he feels the telltale pressure of Will's cockhead against his hole, he clenches his jaw and sinks down, lets Will split him, lets him sink in.

Will's eyes flash, and he surges with another snarl, gripping Hannibal's hips fiercely with both hands and sitting up so Hannibal is forced to lower himself further, take him all in. Will's teeth find his collarbone and bite, as Hannibal wraps a hand in Will's hair, encouraging him to mark and suck to his heart's content. It is an invitation eagerly accepted – Will is shaking beneath him, a chorus of riotous and rapturous snarls fighting their way free of his chest to see which will be the first one he gives voice to.

Like his generals, Will's cries are a call to heel, and Hannibal is helpless but to obey. He moans as the backs of his thighs rest against Will's, his cock smearing and dragging along Will's belly. He clenches, testing Will's girth inside him, finds that it fills him wonderfully. Combined with Will's teeth, and his claws, Hannibal feels that terrible gasping ache inside him again, desperate for a knot, for his Alpha.

He tilts his head and nuzzles Will's sweat-slick neck, tugs at his hair as he learned Will likes, and Will shivers and moans against his flesh, sinks his teeth in a little harder, just shy of breaking skin. He doesn't – he has left enough marks. They both have, to last a thousand lifetimes.

"Will," Hannibal whispers, for he must say something, but his Alpha's name is all that emerges. It's all he needs to say.

"I'm here," Will replies, as if there could be any doubt. Will's fingers flex, tighten, slide to cup his thighs and help him move. Hannibal rolls with his entire body, groans and shivers as Will sinks another inch in, slides back, pushes in again. It's frantic in every way except for the pace, with is languid enough to border on maddening.

Then, just when Hannibal thinks he might snap his teeth or snarl at Will, Will moves, rolls him to his back and coaxes him up, elbows tucked to the back of Hannibal's knees. Wll folds him thoroughly, claiming his mouth as he starts a brutal rhythm that crashes them together like a rockslide and makes the borders of the nest tremble. They hold, but barely, as Will digs in with his knees and feet, braces himself, and sinks his teeth into Hannibal's neck as he snarls, and moves with abandon. It is, Hannibal thinks, how he might behave should Hannibal ever go into heat again, and that is a _very_ tempting thought.

He runs his hands down Will's back, digs his nails in to encourage Will to go harder, deeper, as rough as he likes. Hannibal is strong, he won't break, though Will seems intent on testing that theory. Will is powerful, so capable, as much a predator as Hannibal is; he feels that truth in the ache on his throat, worried by Will's teeth; he feels it in the drag of Will's claws along the tops of his thighs as he grips Hannibal and holds him still. He feels it in the arch of Will's back, the strength in his legs, the sounds he's making as he fucks Hannibal brutally, all that tension from going so long denied finally rearing up and howling at the sky.

He grips Will's hair, forcing him to release his neck, and kisses Will fiercely, drinking down his growls and giving his own in return – he wants his Alpha to know how pleased he is, how happy Will is making him. He wants Will to see the predator in Hannibal in turn, showing its golden eyes and bared teeth. He wants to shred Will on the tines of his love, taste Will's blood beneath his nails. He wants Will to bite back.

Will hisses, clenching his eyes shut, pulls his head away, but Hannibal refuses to let him go far – he grips Will tightly at the nape, an action that would surely spark rage in any other Alpha, but for Will it merely makes his eyes flash and his lips part, showing Hannibal those savage teeth.

"Look at me," he commands, and Will swallows, lets go of one of Hannibal's legs to flatten his hand over Hannibal's heart. Their sweat mingling together, Hannibal's slick and Will's thick-edged desire is a cacophony to his senses, draining him of everything but the thought of Will, inside him, on top of him – any way Hannibal wants him, he knows Will can give it. They wasted so much time, and have so much to make up for.

"Look at me," he says again, gentler now but no less fierce, and watches as his Voice takes a hold of Will by the neck, makes him shudder and go still. Hannibal rolls his hips, clings to Will with his thighs and digs his heels against Will's calves as Will groans, lashes fluttering, but he doesn't look away.

"I want to knot you so fuckin' bad," he admits. Hannibal can feel that, too; he smells it on Will. He can feel the very subtle swell of Will's knot whenever he presses in deep. He's curious why Will would resist the urge, but before he can ask, Will's hand drops to Hannibal's cock, stroking quickly, and he understands. He wants Hannibal to finish first.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him, rolls his hips and braces himself until he finds the angle he likes, that makes Will's cock brush up against his prostate and rut with terrible, promising pressure. "There," he coaxes, and pets down Will's back as Will flinches, tenses, keeps touching him. "That's it, darling. Keep doing that."

Will bares his teeth, sinks them into Hannibal's shoulder as he ruts in deep, cockhead butting up against that sensitive spot. Hannibal lowers his hand, dips behind his balls to find where he's slick and open, puts pressure on the outside so that he traps his prostate and Will has no choice but to fuck against it. It's decadent, seeing Will so close to the edge and forcing himself to hold back.

"Mm, _fuck_ ," Will gasps, his teeth red when he pulls away from Hannibal's shoulder, leaving another savage welt behind. "Fuck, Hannibal, I can't -. I -."

He goes silent, rhythm faltering, and growls, forcing his hips as tight to Hannibal as he can get them. Hannibal lifts his knees to allow him deeper access, gasping at the feeling of Will's knot as it slips into him, and then swells like it was just waiting for the opportunity, locking them together. Will shivers, growls into Hannibal's neck. The knot is a precursor to his orgasm, creating the seal before he spills, and he's quivering with restraint.

"What do you need?" Hannibal asks. He'll do whatever Will asks of him.

Will snaps his teeth together, and hisses; "Bite me. Right now." Hannibal can certainly do that. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, threads a hand through Will's hair and tugs, forcing his head to one side. He finds Will's pulse with his lips, wets the skin to get a taste of Will's sweat, the mint and lemongrass scent oozing from him, and he bites down right over the scent gland beneath Will's ear.

The sound Will makes is not quite a scream, but it is loud, and rough, like he's trying to will an entire pack of Alphas into submission. The sound brings with it the memory of Will, in Jack's living room, ordering all those Alphas to stand down – he's so powerful, so delightfully strong and unpredictable and his, he's _Hannibal's_ , and Hannibal gorges himself on the sweet, decadent taste of Will's blood as Will trembles, and slams his free hand down on the nest.

He spills into Hannibal, so much Hannibal can feel it leak out around the seal of his knot, and Hannibal's belly tenses, angry and possessive of Will's seed. He arches so that Will's knot sinks in deeper, claws his hand down Will's flank and to his thigh to force him further in.

"Hannibal, _please_ ," Will whispers, and Hannibal isn't sure what he's asking for. He nudges their foreheads together, making their eyes meet. His pupils are wide, devouring all the red and blue in his iris, his cheeks so dark they match the heart he made Hannibal leave to join him up here. His shoulders, tensed and shaking, he's beautiful.

Hannibal smiles at him, breathless, and tilts his head to show his neck.

Will leans down immediately, and reopens the original scar again, his sharp teeth sinking in and it is that sudden stab of pain, the blooming ache, that sends Hannibal over the edge. He snarls loudly, curling up beneath Will as he comes, dirtying Will's hand and their close-pressed stomachs. Will is panting heavily, too slack-jawed to properly bite, now, as Hannibal arches and writhes beneath him. He lets go of Hannibal's cock, content to let him mark Will's belly through the aftershocks, and grips Hannibal's hips tightly, making him go still.

"Sensitive," is all he offers in explanation, word slurring. The knot is a muscle like any other, and can certainly suffer strain. Hannibal relaxes, closing his eyes as he feels his internal muscles clench, milking Will's knot as instinct demands, so that he has the highest change of insemination, though the position is far from optimal for it and Hannibal is not fertile.

Will breathes out as Hannibal goes lax, melting against him like another wave, like heat, only this one is far more welcome and much more pleasant. He nuzzles Hannibal's neck, panting heavily, and Hannibal smiles and pets through his sweaty hair, pushing it from his nape and dragging his nails across it in a way that makes Will shiver.

"How long does your knot typically last?" he asks, when he senses Will is a little more aware.

Will laughs – sharp and hysterical. "No idea," he replies. "Never knotted anyone before."

Hannibal blinks in surprise, and Will lifts his head. The light in his eyes, his blush, is not quite ashamed, not sheepish, but he clearly doesn't want Hannibal to press. Hannibal is feeling merciful – Will has certainly earned his mercy – and so he says; "We should roll over again, then. It will be more comfortable for both of us."

Will nods, wincing when their repositioning tugs on his knot despite Hannibal's best efforts. It drags along his prostate, sending another fissure of pleasant aftershocks through him, and he shivers, purring loud and unabashed, as he settles over Will's hips.

Will stares at him, still trying to catch his breath. His hands shake, fingers twitching, as they settle on Hannibal's thighs, absently petting him as Alphas are so fond of doing after intense sex. It is in their evolution to soothe their mates, their instincts demand to cover and pet them and reassure them with their weight and heat. Will clearly wants to, but Hannibal was right – it's much more comfortable to wait out his knot this way.

Hannibal smiles, sighing as he feels another heavy load of Will's come soaking him from the inside. He can imagine it would have felt a thousand times better during his heat, but resists the urge to say so. Will had his reasons, and they were good reasons when all was said and done. Hannibal would do well to trust his judgement in the future.

Will's lips quirk, and he wets them, swallowing harshly. He seems to hesitate over his next words, and Hannibal is content to let him, basking in the afterglow. Finally, he says; "Do you still have that prosciutto? The stuff you made out of Jack?"

Hannibal's head tilts. He nods.

Will mimics him. That will increase, the more often they bite and take of each other, their desires and habits blurring until it will be like they have known each other all their lives – Hannibal will know when Will gets hungry, before he says a word. Will's awareness of Hannibal will blossom to a kind of shared consciousness, a mind palace with overlapping rooms, vast and unconquerable.

Will blinks, and licks his lips again. "I don't think I've ever had prosciutto," he says idly, still petting Hannibal's thighs. "Not that I can remember. Though I don't remember the names of half the fancy shit you've ever fed me."

Hannibal smiles. "I don't think I've served it to you, no," he says, another soft purr making his words sound hoarse and rasping. "Would you like to try it?"

Will shakes his head. "No," he replies, just as fierce as when he first forbade Hannibal from feeding it to him. Hannibal sighs, and nods in acceptance. "But I was thinking, maybe, if it's safe for the dogs to eat, we can see if they like it."

Hannibal's brows rise.

Will rolls his eyes, which are brightening, fading to blue. He lifts his chin in challenge. "I've seen you looking at landscapers. Kennel builders. I'm not stupid, Hannibal."

"I never said you were," Hannibal replies, as calmly as he can manage. Internally, though, his spine shivers with anticipation, hope blooming like heat in his chest. "It's perfectly safe for your animals, Will, if that's how you would like to honor Jack."

Will nods. He tilts his head to one side, eyeing the edges of his nest. "I want to keep this, if that's alright," he says, and reaches out to pet over Hannibal's shirt, which now has joined the wall of it and will not be removed.

"Do you think I would refuse?" Hannibal asks, more amused and curious than anything else.

Will shrugs.

"Will, look at me," Hannibal murmurs, and Will obeys, meeting his gaze. He leans down, careful not to tug on Will's knot, and cups his cheek in a tender touch – the same one, he notes absently, that bore the smear of blood from Will's incredible triumph. "I didn't build this nest for you just to see it torn down."

He brushes his thumb to the corner of Will's mouth, watches his lips part, his nostrils flare.

"I didn't share my home, and my meals, and my secrets with you just because you were there to share with," Hannibal continues. "And I'm not offering to accommodate your dogs, nor will I demand you warm my bed, or stay here, if it's not something you want." He sighs – sweet Will, it will be a long time before the doubt is gone, before his nightmares cease, but Hannibal is nothing if not determined. "I want you here, not out of some primal need, or accidental bond, or strategic advantage."

"Then why?" Will asks, breathless and soft. He needs to hear Hannibal say it.

Hannibal smiles, and then shivers, gasping as he feels Will's knot deflate, his cock slips out followed by a thick trail of seed and Hannibal's slick. Will huffs, resignation on his face, sensing the moment has passed – but Hannibal will not let it go. Time passes, as it always must, but Hannibal can spare a few more seconds before the discomfort of their sweat and the gnawing hunger in his belly comes for him.

He pulls Will upright, and kisses him tenderly. "I want you here because you're mine," he whispers. Will goes quiet, goes still, his tremors abruptly ceasing. Hannibal pets through his sweaty hair, over his nape, and smiles again. "And because I love you."

Will swallows, and the whine he lets out is sweet, and afraid.

He kisses Will so that Will doesn't have to answer, sure that Will cannot say it back – the wounds are too raw, emotions too high. He understands, though it causes a deep ache in him to acknowledge. As he pulls back, and makes to rise, Will clings to him and shakes his head fiercely.

"Stay," he says – begs, with his hands and his eyes and his soft voice. "I'm not ready to let you go yet."

Hannibal smiles, for the way he says it is all the answer he needs.

 

 

They do eventually rise, and shower. Will wears Hannibal's clothes to the dinner table, and Hannibal serves him the heart – symbolic, he thinks, and poignant – as well as the favorite wine of Will's he would drink back when they shared such things. Will sits close to him, closer than Hannibal originally set the place, and eats in silence.

When dinner is done, Hannibal reaches for his plate to clear it, and stops when Will grabs his wrist. The grip doesn't hurt – it is almost unbearably gentle, so soft as to not be there at all. Will lifts his head, meets his eyes, and says, so quietly Hannibal couldn't hear it if he weren't standing so close;

"I love you too. You know that, right?"

Hannibal smiles, and leans down to nuzzle his wild, shower-damp hair, and presses a kiss to his forehead. "I know, Will," he replies, and Will's shoulders drop, the breath he lets out is shaky with relief. "Perhaps, if you'll permit me, we can both sleep in your nest tonight."

Will huffs, and drops his hand. "Good Omegas sleep in a nest, is that it?"

"Smart ones do," Hannibal replies with a teasing smile, echoing Will's words back to him before he first went into heat. "I know where I belong."

Will's eyes darken, and he smiles – that wide, dimpling, cunning thing that Hannibal so fondly remembers. He stands, and pulls Hannibal into a kiss, pressing to him tightly and dragging his nails down Hannibal's flanks in a way that makes him shiver.

"Good," he purrs, and pulls away. "I'll see you upstairs." And Hannibal intended to do the dishes and clean up, perhaps retire with Will to the study so that they could share in another quiet, friendly conversation, as they always had before Will went away, but he finds Will's scent, his smile, his promising purr, far too tempting, to the point where, when Will turns away and prowls out of the room, Hannibal eagerly follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd it's done! I'll admit I'm very emotional, sleep-deprived, and sad to see these boys go. This became so much more than even I planned out and it was a rough ride, and a long journey, but I hope you guys liked it.
> 
> See you in the next fic! <3


End file.
